


Defensor

by aadarshinah



Series: The Ancient!John 'verse [3]
Category: Stargate - All Series, Stargate - Fandom, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Stargate Universe
Genre: Adoption, Ancient John Sheppard, Ancient Technology, Ancients, Ascension, Asurans, Birthday, Bisexuality, Break Up, Character Death, Coalition, Conspiracy, Descension, Descent Into Darkness, Dysfunctional Family, Electrocution, Episode: s10e03 The Pegasus Project, F/F, F/M, Genocide, Gods, Good Intentions, Kings & Queens, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Meditation, Military, Ori, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Replicators, Revolution, Season/Series 03, Sentient Atlantis, Wraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 43
Words: 122,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aadarshinah/pseuds/aadarshinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Civilizations fall. Empires rise. But there is no averting apotheosis, not when one is an Ascended being.</p><p>[The entire third season of the Ancient!John 'verse - ie, SGA's S3, with bits of SG1's S10 and SGU's S1 thrown in.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defensor

**Author's Note:**

> The first story of S3! Takes place during "No Man's Land."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for once this installment is only 1 chappie, so yay, even if it is shorter than you'd expect from something that's taken this long to write.  
> Let's see... Defensor means Defender, both in the defendant and one who defends sense. This story also takes place, according to my bizzarely detailed timeline, on 31 May, 2006, for any who may be interested (it and more extranious details can be found by following the link to the entire 'verse above).

"C'mon," John says tiredly, tugging the hood of his cloak back over his head, hiding his glowing white eyes from view. "We've gotta get to Daedalus."

"The Daedalus? The Daedalus is here?"

"It's a long story, but yeah, Daedalus and Orion are here - though, to be honest, it's the hives that are doing most of the damage to each other. Wraith politics," he grins and starts back the way he came, "always good for evening out a fight." John pauses at the knife Ronon had thrown his way and toes it almost hopefully. His boot passes straight through it. "You'll wanna get that," he adds cheerlessly. "Most the Wraith that were aboard are flying the darts now, but there's still gonna be enough wandering the halls to make it difficult to get to a transport."

John strides off down the passageway, his cloak billowing along behind him.

Rodney looks at Ronon, who shrugs and collects his knife. "Sounds good to me."

"Am I the only one," Rodney asks, loudly, as he hurries after, "who thinks there's something wrong with this situation?"

John pauses at the next junction just long enough for them to catch up. "Mind catching me up here? The situation is that I'm saving your sorry asses. What, exactly, is so wrong about it?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about the part where you've been missing for almost two weeks?"

"I'm back now," he drawls insouciantly. "Still failing to see the problem here, Rodney."

"Elizabeth wanted to hold a funeral!" 

This gets him a frown, or, at least, what Rodney suspects is a frown somewhere underneath the heavy shadows John's cloak casts upon his face. "I wasn't dead."

"Well, I knew that. But that doesn't change the fact that you were gone, God only knows where, for two weeks without so much as a by your leave."

"Wasn't like I'd much warning myself."

"Where were you? How did you get here? Better yet, how did you even know we'd be here?"

"I read a lot of newspapers."

"You read a lot of-!" Rodney exclaims. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means," John grits through what he can only assume is clenched teeth, "that it's a long story. One that should probably wait until we're not in the middle of a Wraith hive ship."

Throwing his hands up in the air, "Forgive me for being curious. It's not like I spent two weeks wondering what the hell had happened to you."

"First off, it was only eleven Lantean days, not two weeks-"

"Yes! That just makes things that much better."

He loses the full force of John's glare to the hood of his stupid cloak. The cloak itself isn't perfectly white, like most Ancient clothes, but the colour of old bones, and with the small part of his mind that isn't absolutely furious at John for leaving him like this and treating it like it's nothing, Rodney wonders what the difference could possibly mean. "I came back as soon as I could."

"That doesn't change the fact youshouldn't have left in the first place!"

John spins on his heel. Faster than Rodney's eyes can make out, John is right in his face. There can't be more than two inches between them, but he can't feel any heat coming off John's body or breath against his cheek. Hell, he can't even feel the brush of John's cloak where it certainly must be hitting him. "I didn't have much choice, Rodney," he hisses, eyes hard and cutting - or maybe just seeming so as they continue to glow with a light that casts no shadows. "You think I wanted to leave? To have this," he makes an abrupt gesture Rodney can't see, "done to me?"

"What did they do to you?" Rodney asks, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

John pulls away. "We should hurry. Orion's losing shield strength and Daedalus was never designed to go up against an enemy like the Wraith."

"John?" he repeats with soft deliberation. "What did they do?"

"They paroled me."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rodney doesn't get anymore information than that until they're on the bridge of the Daedalus. Or, rather, he and Ronon are on the bridge of the Daedalus. John himself is nowhere in sight, despite the fact that he'd been piloting the transport they'd been beamed off of seconds before. He looks around, as if he'd somehow managed to miss the guy in the white cloak that surely has to be around here somewhere, but doesn't see him.

Had he hallucinated their whole escape?

Blinking furiously, he is only vaguely aware of Colonel Caldwell ordering the rail guns to target the hives' dart bays. The ship rocks and quakes around him. There's a shower of sparks from an overblown fuse and the sharp hiss of chemical fire suppressant being released. It all seems real enough, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Not in this galaxy.

"Sir," the officer of the deck says, cutting into Rodney's train of thought, "I've got a contact that's not showing up on our sensors."

Despite the fact that Captain Kleinman's clearly addressing Caldwell, it's Ronon who answers. "If it's not showing up, how do you know it's there?"

Kleinman, oddly enough, points towards the viewscreen. There's a burst of white light that might be some kind of Wraith energy weapon they've never seen before rapidly approaching from the direction of the closest cruiser. Bursts of blue light they're familiar with, yes, but not white. Not when it comes to the Wraith. "It's not showing up on any of my instruments. I'm also showing the Orion changing course."

Rodney has no idea why this might be important, let alone interesting. They're in the middle of a battle. Of course their sister ship is changing course. It's an important thing that ships in battle do to keep from being blown up.

"I thought we beamed everyone off the Orion."

Oh. Well. That is strange then.

"We did. But it's altering it's heading for a collision course with the nearest hive ship. I'm also reading a dangerous increase in it's power output levels."

"Prepare-" Caldwell begins, only to stop when the white light passes straight through their shields - not destroying them or weakening them in any manner, just going straight through them, as if they aren't even there. Seconds later, goes the same with the viewscreen - again, as if the hull poses no barrier whatsoever - and wobbles a bit in the space in front of the captain's chair before coalescing into the form of a man.

A very familiar man.

A very familiar man wearing a bone-white cloak with the hood thrown over his head whose method of entry can only mean one thing.

"Well, that's gonna get old fast," John announces, throwing back his hood. His eyes are no longer glowing, which is a small mercy, but there's still something preternaturally bright about them. Something that's neither human nor Ancient. If John notices the change, he gives no indication of it, and continues with his usual nonchalance, "Also, it'd probably be a good idea to get outta here."

The situation is such that John's unusual arrival is given little of the scrutiny it deserves, and as such Caldwell and Rodney are really the only ones to pay him much attention. The former, in a tone that brokers little argument, offers "No, we need to eliminate those cruisers. They're on their way to Earth and we can't-"

Only to be cut off by John saying, "I know. Which is why I set the auto-destruct on Orion. It'll take care of both hives and most the darts, but we need to get clear." He's stands maddeningly still in the centre of the chaos around them, seemingly unaffected by the lag in the inertial dampeners as Daedalus goes from manoeuvring thrusters to military thrust faster than they can completely compensate.

They manage to get pretty far in the twenty or so seconds they have before the Orion's atuto-destruct goes off, but the shockwave resulting from the exploding hyperdrives is still strong when it hits, making the ship rock and quake some more. Again, John gives no indication that he feels the blast at all, though Rodney thinks can see him wince when it does. Orion might not have been alive, like Aurora, but it was still Ancient. It was still meant to be his when repairs were completed.

"Status of the hive ships?"

"Destroyed, Sir, along with most the darts and the Orion."

Caldwell nods grimly. "I want status reports and casualty lists ready in ten minutes," he tells the officer of the deck. Then, pushing himself out of his chair, he levels John with a state and orders, "Now does somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Rodney snorts. He can't help it. "Isn't it obvious?" he hears himself say, more hysteria than he'd really wanted to share dripping from his voice. "John's Ascended."

"I gathered that much for myself, Doctor. What I want to know is what an Ascended being is doing in the middle of my active combat zone, particularly when I've been told they're not allowed to interfere in our affairs."

It's John's turn to snort. "Not so active now. You're welcome, by the way."

"Understand, Colonel, it's not that I'm ungrateful for your assistance, however surprising it may be. I merely have little desire to see my ship caught up in whatever retribution the other Ascended decide to mete out."

"If it's any consolation, they're not big on the whole physical violence thing. At most they'll just tack on another three or four thousand years to my sentence."

"Your sentence?"

"Yeah," John frowns, struggling with something at the neck of his cloak. It must be the closure because, after a moment, it falls forgotten to the deck. After a moment more, it flickers out of existence as if it never was. "Turns out the others aren't all that happy with all the help I've been giving you guys - big surprise, I know." He makes a disgusted face as he works the buttons of the robe underneath. (It too is bone white, of a style that's a cross between a Catholic priest's cassock and a Lord of the Rings roleplayer's costume, and with rather more embroidery along the cuffs and collar than Rodney thinks is strictly necessary for a guy.) "They were willing to overlook it, though, because pointing out that they were paying attention to what was going on the lower planes would've gotten them in more trouble than it would've me.

"But then," John says, causally continuing to unbutton his robe, "this whole business with the Taranins happened. Interference is one thing, but Haeresis? Even when I'm going around telling everybody and their uncle that I'm not a god and don't want to be treated as one? Apparently that's grounds enough for punishment in their book."

"They forcibly Ascended you," Rodney says dubiously, his last shred of control wavering worrisomely in the face of his impending panic. The only thing keeping him from going to pieces then and there is the knowledge that the Ancients don't forcibly Ascend people. They're all about free will and self-determination and letting people make their own mistakes. They don't want anyone to Ascend who can't do so for themselves. Any Ascending that was done had to have been voluntary on John's part, however much under duress.

"They forcibly Ascended me," John agrees easily and finishes with the last button. He lets his robe fall to the floor, where it hangs about for a moment or two before flickering out of existence as well. He now wears familiar clothing - or, at least, clothes Rodney has seen before, on Aurora's crewmen when he had been hooked into her neural network.

The uniform is shades of beige: A short-sleeved shirt underneath a sturdy-looking vest he's heard John call a brigandine. Heavy vambraces of the same materiel go from wrist to elbow on both his arms, in place of the smaller black bracer John usually favours. A silver disc - the orbis that is the mark of a Lantean legatus - is pinned to his collar. Five silver stars - two on one shoulder, three on the other - sit where Earth-based militaries would place rank insignia. The pants tuck in to boots that rise to just above the knee and look to be made of deerskin or rawhide. A belt of the same material hangs low on his hips, holstering some sort of Ancient energy weapon.

John, appearing content with his current state of dress, stops fiddling with his clothing and starts scouting the bridge for a spot to lean against while he continues his tale.

Rodney tries to meet his eyes, just waiting for that opening so he can ask what the hell is going on and what the fuck happened and why are you still Ascended and why won't you give us a straight answer, dammit. 

But John won't meet his eyes. Every time they glance his way they stall out somewhere near his left shoulder then move away quickly, as if burned.

Rodney's not going to pretend that doesn't hurt.

"It's a bit more complicated than that, of course," John continues, choosing to slouch against the pilot's terminal. He sounds tired, tired and impossibly old. "The others were going to wait until I actively did something heretical, but Ganos thought-"

Rodney finds his voice again. "Ganos? You mean Ganos Lal, better known as Morgon le Fey?"

John frowns. "Yeah, that's the one. You know about her? I didn't think I'd mentioned her before."

"Not exactly."

John's frown deepens, but doesn't question further. "Ganos was on the Council before the Exodus - she was even High Councillor for a while before her brother took over, but that was all politics. She was a real hard-ass for the rules too. They all were, the others." He gives them a tired smile that hints at something Rodney hasn't the slightest idea how to begin to name. "As if interfering is the worst that you could do to somebody.

"But I guess that whole deal with her brother changed her mind. After all, if Moros could come around to the idea that we should take responsibility for our own messes, why not Ganos? They were cut from the same cloth, after all. So anyway, she yanked me to the higher planes, filled me in on the situation, and took me to my trial."

"Your trial," Caldwell says blandly.

John starts to pick at the laces on his vambraces. "Yeah. Thus the court clothes."

Ronon snorts. "You're dressed like something out of the old stories, the ones my grandmother would tell about the Ancestors."

"I am an Ancestor," John reminds them, as if it isn't painfully obvious, "and an exiled one at that. The others tried me for my perceived heresies and found me guilty. And as such they've sentenced me to thirty thousand, seven hundred and seventeen years of Ascension. I get to be the god they think I want to be until I've learned my lesson."

There's silence on the bridge for a long while. The only son Rodney can hear is the thrumming of blood in his ears.

"But that's not the kicker," John continues. "The kicker is that they'll let me mess around with my so-called Haeresis, but if I use any of my new-found powers I sacrifice not only myself, but all the homeworlds of those who believe in me."

"But that would mean..." someone - Rodney thinks it might be himself - breathes.

"The deaths of millions."


	2. Idolon, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which cake is eaten, a movie is watched, and feelings are discussed. Sorta.

"I feel like I'm floating in the centre of the sun," Iohannes begins, only to snatch the words back as soon as he says them. "No, that's wrong. It's more like I'm the star, with all of the thermonuclear fusion going on right under my skin, and I'm trying to hold onto all of this, this light and radiation and energy I'm producing, only the more I try to hang onto, the harder it gets to hold on to any of it at all. And any second it's all just going to come flying apart." He lets his hands fall limply to the into his lap.

Teyla looks at him with solicitude heavy in her eyes. "Have you considered letting go of this energy you describe? Of not trying to hold on to it?"

"That would be worse," he says immediately, staring down at his hands. It's been two weeks since he came back from the higher planes. But, more importantly, it's been twenty-five days since he Ascended, meaning it's been twenty-five days since he's had corporeal form and twenty-five days since he's been able to touch anyone or anything. Iohannes has never been what anyone might consider touchy-feely, but he's growing desperate for touch. Even the solid presence of  
Atlantis' floors beneath his feet would be a beautiful miracle at this point, one he'd gladly give almost anything for.

Iohannes has no idea how he's going to survive thirty thousand years this way.

"Are you certain?"

"To Ascend is to convert all the matter in your body into pure energy. If I let it go, I go."

"How do you know?"

It's hard to get angry or even irritated with Teyla, but it's not impossible. "Trust me," he says, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I know."

With impeccable calm, she suggests, "Why don't you show me?"

"Fine," he says, unable to hide his glower, and looses his hold just a little. Not much, but enough to feel himself waver at the edges, to feel the cold light start to pour from his body in torrents and waterfalls.

It's like drowning and burning and tumbling into the vacuum of space without a spacesuit - completely overwhelming and without any hope of recovery. It's as terrifying as thunder and as brilliant as lightning and more dangerous than the winds that shriek and howl amidst Atlantis' glass-spun towers during the strongest storms. It's awful and awesome beyond words and if there's anything redeeming a out it at all, Iohannes can't think of it.

Desperately, he throws his controls back up. "There," he tells her, gasping like he's run a marathon with Ronon. "See. Told you it was a bad idea."

"Was it?"

"If I wanted reverse psychology, I'd have gone to Heightmeyer."

"Kate is quite skilled at her job."

"It's not about whether she's skilled or not."

"It's about whether or not you trust her," Teyla nods knowingly.

"What? No. Now you're just being ridiculous."

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

The Athosian sighs, like Iohannes is being particularly dense. "John, you could have chosen to talk to Kate about your problems. Or Elizabeth. Or Rodney. Or any of your friends. And yet you chose to come to me. Why is that?"

"That's easy. 'Cause you're the only one on Atlantis I know of that meditates and therefore the only one who has a chance of understanding even a little of what I'm going through."

"I wish that were so, John," Teyla says, smilingly at him beatifically. It's at times like this Iohannes can't help but think how much better an Ascended being she'd make then any of the others he's ever encountered, himself included. "For all my meditation, I have never come close to anything like what you have described."

"Lucky you."

"Perhaps," she says, her smile going wry. "But what you have achieved is something many of my people - indeed, many people throughout this galaxy - have dedicated their lives to achieving. Even if it is a confusing experience, it is one I cannot help be glad you are able to have."

"Even if it's not by choice?"

"You chose it once," she reminds him.

It's true enough. Last year Iohannes had Ascended with the intent of stopping the siege of the city, only to be cast down within minutes of his Ascension, before he had been able to attack the Wraith hives above Atlantis. His choice, yes, but one only borne of desperation.

But that was then, and this time there was no choice.

They sit in silence for a long while.

Iohannes watches the smoke waft from the incense she's set out upon her Ancestral altar. The existence of altar itself makes him very ill at ease. He's all for religious freedom, but the idea of someone else's religion being him makes him beyond uncomfortable, to say nothing of the Haeresis that is implicit in such objects.

Teyla is very good about it. She's less religious then she was, but even at the very beginning of their friendship she was careful not to bother him with it.

The other Athosians are less so. After every visit they make to the city, their shrine becomes more elaborate. The braver ones will even stop him in the halls and ask for his blessing - for their crops, for their children, for their marriages. He tries to avoid it if he seems them coming, but if they corner him he'll give it. It's the only way to make them go away, even if it makes him feel dirty inside.

After two years, the shrine room has grown beyond the small altar made out of scavenged parts it was at their arrival in the city. Now the altar itself is the size of one of the mess hall tables, intricately carved from some dark wood found on the mainland and laden with candles and incense and flowers. Brightly coloured prayer ribbons are tied to poles set around the room, fresh from the last time the Athosians had been shuttled to Atlantis. Images of Ancestors - Alterans - raising their worshipers up and casting the Wraith down line the walls.

It's brilliant and beautiful and serene and quietly holy.

Iohannes hates it terribly. But it is the room Teyla uses to meditate and, thus, the one room he can be guaranteed to find her alone in now that her people have - finally - retuned to the mainland.

The incense continues to waft.

Teyla finally breaks the silence. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Have you tried talking to Rodney about any of this?"

"And say what? Hey Rodney, I know you think this whole Ascension thing is just a whole bunch of mystical mumbo-jumbo, but I've kinda gotta explore my spiritual side if I want to get a handle on my fancy new Ascended powers. Wanna help?" Iohannes snorts. "Yeah. That is bound to go over real well."

Teyla inclines her head in something that might be understanding. "Have you tried talking to Rodney at all?"

"Well yeah, of course. Just this morning we were talking about-"

"What I mean to say is, have you tried speaking with Rodney about anything not related to work since you returned from the higher planes?"

He turns to stare at the incense again. "What'd be the point?"

"Among other reasons? To reassure him that your feelings for him have not changed since you Ascended."

Iohannes continues to stare at the incense, saying nothing.

"Your feelings for Rodney," she broaches slowly, "have not changed, have they?"

"Of course not," Iohannes says fiercely, eyes snapping back to hers. "It's just," unable to hold her gaze, he climbs to his feet and strides angrily across the room, coming to stop right in front of the splendid, heretical altar. "It's just, really, what is the point? I'm Ascended. I'm going to be Ascended for the next thirty thousand years.

"And, okay, maybe, just maybe I can deal with that. I mean, I was in stasis for ten thousand years. I slept through the extinction of my whole race and managed to carve out a life for myself afterwards. Maybe I can do it again. Maybe I can find a way to live with myself year after year, millennium after millennium, while everyone I know - everybody I love - grows old without me. Dies without me. That's not beyond the realm of possibility.

"But to go through all those years like this?" Iohannes slams his hand down on the altar and knocks all the idols and offerings, candles and incense to the floor. Or, at least, he tries to. He wants to. Instead, his hand passes harmlessly through all of it, as if he'd done nothing at all. As if he's. Not. Even. There. "What good am I to anyone if I can't touch anything?"

"Relationships are based on more than physical contact, John. I am sure you and Rodney will be able to reach some sort of understanding."

"This is not about Rodney!" Iohannes snaps. Then, running his hands through his hair - a useless gesture that he cannot in any way feel or even sense, "At least, it's not only about him. I'm a soldier, Teyla. I may not have joined the Guard until I was seventeen, but I've been fighting all my life.

"I mean, what choice did I have?" he asks the wall beyond the altar, hands balling into useless fists at his sides. "I was a pastor and Ciprian was so old, even back then. He was in no shape to be spending hours in the cathedra, but we were at war and someone had to. What choice did I have?" he repeats.

Teyla's voice, when it comes, startles Iohannes. She'd stood at some point while he'd been talking and joined him next to the altar, close enough to touch if he could still do so. "How old were you?"

"The first time? Six. And before you say it, no one made me do it. It's just...

"Look, there were over twenty hives in orbit at the time and they were carpet bombing the entire planet. The mainland was one giant firestorm. The oceans were being flooded with toxins. The Wraith were trying to make Lantea uninhabitable and Ciprian had collapsed trying to deal with it all.

"So while the adults were taking care of him, I snuck into the cathedra. Must have taken out six hundred darts before they realised what I'd done. They were upset, sure, but they didn't stop me until the darts retreated back to their hives. That's how I got this first laudis councelium," Iohannes adds, tapping one of the stars on his right shoulder. "Tell me, what choice did I have after that?"

Teyla, wisely, says nothing.

"The only thing I am is a solider. What good am I to anyone if I can't even do that?"

"You are much more than a soldier, John."

"I'm really not."

She turns to him with a gentle, teasing smile. "I was a under the impression that self-awareness is a key aspect of Ascension."

"Yeah. I'm not really in the right mood for all that metaphysical, mystical, meditation mumbo-jumbo anymore. Sorry."

"It is all right," Teyla says, her smile growing brighter. "I was considering getting something to eat instead. Would you care to join me?"

Iohannes sighs. "Y'know I don't need to eat anymore, right?"

"Which is why you shall keep me company while I eat."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mess hall is never empty. There are times when it's less crowded than others, but it's never empty, so Iohannes isn't really surprised to see Ronon and Elizabeta sharing one of the middle tables with Rodney and Zelenka despite the hour. While Teyla goes to get her food, he heads on over.

"Hey guys," he says, sliding into the empty seat next to Rodney.

Elizabeta gives him a smile that crinkles her eyes and makes her whole face shine. "John. Just the man we were hoping to see."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. You've got to help me. We were thinking of having a movie night tonight - you know, our last chance to relax before Woolsey starts poking his greasy nose into things he has no hope of understanding tomorrow - and these two," Rodney points accusingly at Zelenka and Elizabeta, "want to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's."

"It is good movie!" Zelenka protests. "Audrey Hepburn manages to turn what should be the highly implausible character of Holly Golightly into a charming and believable performance."

"Oh my god," Rodney scoffs loudly, "what are you? A '60s housewife?"

"It's a classic!"

"You are a physicist! A male physicist! You should be pulling for 2001 with me. Or, at the very least, offering a suitable science fiction alternative. Hell, I'd take The Matrix over Breakfast at Tiffany's. John, tell them."

Iohannes looks at Ronon, who shrugs unhelpfully, then back to Rodney. "Someone made a movie about matrices?" He's always had a slight obsession with matrices, particularly the sort the Terrans call Latin squares, and while Iohannes is uncertain as to what form a movie about them could possibly take, it's almost guaranteed to be fascinating. Most Terran movies and television shows he's seen so far have been, if only for their horrible inaccuracies and misconceptions.

Well, except for Wormhole X-treme, but that's fascinating for a whole other set of reasons.

"Er, no."

"Huh. That's disappointing."

"Yes, yes it was - though for different reasons than the one you're probably thinking of. Can you just, I don't know, tell these two that we refuse to watch a romantic comedy so we can move on to more important questions, like who's turn it is to contribute snacks?"

Cocking an eyebrow, he turns to Elizabeta and repeats, "We refuse to watch a romantic comedy."

"It's okay," Elizabeta says, mouth quirking upwards on one side. "If I've learned one thing since joining the Stargate Program, it's that science fiction is more than a simple interest, it's a way of life."

Both the scientists at the table snort.

"It is my sincere belief," Zelenka goes so far to say, "that when the Stargate Program finally goes public, a young doctoral candidate in a department of history somewhere will notice how many of the people involved only became interested in outer space because of Star Trek. He will write his dissertation on how Gene Roddenberry saved the universe and it will become a mainstream success which we will never see a penny from."

Rodney and Elizabeta snort this time, the former adding huffily, "Get your liberal arts major boyfriend to write it."

Doctor Z's eyebrows rise impertinently. "Evan studied philosophy, not history."

"Same difference. Either way, it's a completely pointless degree. He might as well write it."

"I am having a hard enough time trying to convince him to finish his dissertation - he's ABD from Stanford for a PhD in ancient philosophy."

"Impressive," Elizabeta says.

Ronon just looks bored.

"Well, I dunno about ancient Terran philosophy, but I know plenty about old Alteran philosophy if you ever get him to change his mind."

Elizabeta looks at him dubiously. "Really?"

"How d'you think I Ascended in the first place? The first time, I mean."

"To be completely honest? I never really put much thought into the how," she says. "Mostly, I was just curious as to how you came back so quickly."

"Yeah, well, how deep is the river if you cannot see the bottom?" Iohannes shrugs.

"I dunno," Lorne answers from behind him, carrying a large cake stuck through with several dozen tiny candles. "Depends on the river, I guess."

"Even the shallowest waters can reflect mountains."

"Only if they're calm waters." He gestures with the tray holding the cake. "Now, Sir, do you want to trade some more aphorisms, or do you want your cake?"

"My cake?"

Lorne sets it on the table in front of Iohannes. "Yessir. Happy Birthday."

"Birthday?" Iohannes repeats blankly.

"Yes," Teyla agrees, setting down a stack of plates after Lorne moves out of the way. "You are to be congratulated for reaching such an age. It is an extraordinary and auspicious thing among the people of this galaxy."

"Yeah," Ronon snorts. "My grandfather lived to be seventy-four. I've never heard of someone reaching your age before. How old are you supposed to be, anyway?"

"Er, ten thousand, two hundred thirty-nine. Or maybe thirty-six. Stasis makes these sorts of things confusing. But what I don't get is why we're celebrating it."

Elizabeta bites her lower lip. "It is today, correct? I asked Rodney too look it up in the Ancient database last Christmas, after you mentioned your people didn't have holidays."

"I dunno. Possibly. Probably. It's not exactly something I ever thought to keep track of."

"It is," Lorne answers, grinning broadly. "'Lantis told me."

"Oh, really?" Iohannes asks, scowling at the ceiling. "And what else has she been telling you?"

"How you got the nickname Licinus for one thing," the major smirks at him.

Carson walks up then an deposits a collection of flatware atop the plates - presumably, he'd come from the same shadowed corner Teyla had found Lorne in, and not simply chosen to shower them with random cutlery, "That sounds like a story."

"It's not really," Iohannes says quickly-

-but not quickly enough, it seems, as Lorne has already started in on his story. And then Atlantis flickers the lights playfully overhead and cries for him to blow out the candles come. And then there is cake, which he cannot eat but the others thoroughly enjoy. And then they let Rodney bully them into watching 2001: A Space Odyssey, and despite everything - the Wraith, Iohannes' Ascension; Woolsey's upcoming IOA inspection - they have more fun and laugh harder than he remembers doing at any point in his long, long life.

Iohannes might not know much about birthdays, but he's pretty sure this qualifies as a good one.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm just saying, the whole premise of the movie is wrong."

"You," Rodney accuses as they make their way down the darkened hallways to his quarters, "don't know what you're talking about. 2001 is the single greatest SyFy movie ever made, with the possible - possible - exception of Blade Runner. And maybe the second Star Trek."

"I'm not saying it wasn't good," Iohannes contends, attempting to shove his hands into his pockets, remembering too late that the Lantean Guardsman uniform he's still wearing has none. He rests them on his hips instead, but it's not the same. "I'm just saying it's wrong. I mean, above and beyond the whole let's abduct the Terran thing - which, really, is something the people of your planet worry far too much about-"

"In our defence, our ancestors were abducted by the goa'uld for slave labour, so it is a valid fear."

"Nuclear holocaust is a valid fear. Abduction of single individuals by an advanced race? Not so much."

"You're only saying that because your ancestors nuked your homeworld."

"Exactly. Which makes it a valid fear to have, unlike little green men plucking random farmers out of their homes and leaving strange symbols in their corn fields."

"The Asgard Loki used to abduct people from Earth all the time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He got General O'Neill once."

"Huh." Iohannes pauses. "Did they make a Wormhole X-treme about it?"

"I never should have introduced you to that show."

"Oh, I dunno," he drawls. "It's more interesting than reading the mission reports."

"I'll give you that," Rodney concedes, giving him the small, brilliant smile his amator reserves for those rare moments when he's truly happy. It makes Iohannes want to lean over and kiss him right here in the middle of the hall where anyone could see them and the only reason he doesn't is because his lips are just as insubstantial as the rest of him right now.

/This is torture,/ he tells Atlantis. /It's not bad enough that they threaten to destroy dozens of innocent worlds if I screw up, or forced me to Ascend entirely against my will. No, they've made it so I can't even kiss the person I love. How is that right?/

/Punishment isn't supposed to be fun, pastor,/ she reminds him quietly.

/I shouldn't even be being punished in the first place!/

/We know, pastor, and we agree, but what can be done? The others have spoken and their word is law. You can no more Descend than we can Ascend, and without a body you can no more kiss than you can do anything else./

Iohannes sighs and watches the smile slip off Rodney's face, as if he'd somehow noticed the direction his thoughts were taking him. He tries to bring it back, disputing, "That still doesn't change the fact that the whole premise of 2001 is wrong."

"No," Rodney argues, more for argument's sake than anything else. "It is perfect. It is the best science fiction Earth has to offer, and until you show me a decent Ancient movie, you cannot say otherwise."

"Hey, I liked it. I really did. I'm just saying that that computer? HAL? He can't have been a real AI."

"What makes you say that?"

"AI's are real people, and real people can believe two entirely different things at once without going crazy. It's a hallmark of true intelligence. If HAL was really an AI, he'd have been able to deal with lying to Poole and Bowman. I mean, 'Lantis lies to me all the time, and while I'd be the first to admit she's not exactly the pilar of mental health, none of her neuroses are caused by that."

"Maybe. But AI or not, I'm glad you liked it."

"Me too."

Rodney stops walking. It takes Iohannes a moment longer than it should to realise it's because they're at the door to Rodney's quarters, and though he has no stomach, he swears he can feel it sink. He doesn't want the night to be over.

"Do you want to come in?"

"I want to, but-"

I can't touch you, though I would love nothing more than to kiss you like you deserve to be kissed.

I can't sleep, though I want nothing more than to fall asleep in the curl of your body, with your chest pressed against my back and your arm slung heavy over my hips. 

I don't want to lose you, but I don't have any idea how we can manage to stay together.

"I know. Just... I'd rather have you and not be able to touch you than lose you altogether. So, please, just come inside."

"Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This flowed. Mostly. I see this as being a two-parter (as I realized a 3 month time skip might be a no-no). Idolon means apparition or spectre in Latin - for reasons that you will see below - and actually has no relation to the English word idol, though I love the coincidence. According to the Stargate Wiki, John's bday is June 14, though where this comes from no one seems to have any idea. Latin squares are... well, sodoku is a type of them, which is really the best way to describe it. Teyla really is the best plot device when it comes to emotions and the boys.... and many thanks to popkin16 who spent several hours on skype with me the other day talking about what the religion of Pegasus (ie, the worship of the Ancestors) might look like.  
> Also, after much discussion (ie, all 4 hours of the drive back from the concert the other night, with my mother, who knows nothing about this series or SGA) and much downloading of Johnny Cash covers, I've determined that the soundtrack for the begining of S3 is this, in order: "Some Nights" by fun. and "Folsom Prison Blues" as preformed by Jamie Lono. More will come later.


	3. Idolon, Part 2

Iohannes stands uncomfortably in the middle of his _amator_ 's quarters, hands resting awkwardly on his hips. He feels artless and graceless and out of place, like an elephant in a bookshop.

"God, don't just stand there," Rodney tells him, coming out of the en suite with a towel knotted loosely around his hips. "These are practically your quarters too. So sit down or something. Make yourself at home - or, at the very least, try not to make this more weird than it already is."

"Sorry," he says before perching stiffly on the edge of Rodney's desk. He's not sure his attempt goes well - he thinks some some of his essence slinks away, becoming one with the desk rather than just brushing against it, - but it goes well enough.

Now running the towel through his hair, Rodney turns and frowns at him. "For what?"

"I dunno. Everything, I guess."

Rodney snorts, turning back to his bureau and riffling through one of the drawers. "Get back to me when you have something more specific than _everything_."

Iohannes gives him a small, sad smile. "If you want specifics, I might end up never leaving."

"I'm okay with that."

"And what about the whole _non-corporeal_ thing? You okay with that?"

"We'll figure something out," Rodney promises, padding back into the main room in a pair of boxer shorts. Periodic Table boxer shorts. They're missing the last seventeen elements, like all Terran Periodic Tables do, but Iohannes doesn't have the heart to tell him. He never does.

"That's what Teyla said."

"You've been talking to Teyla about this?"

"Yeah. We're meditation buddies now."

"Oh?"

"Not really," Iohannes admits, slumping back against the desk. "I think I fell asleep last time we tried, and that's saying something."

"Can't sleep either, huh?"

Sighing. "Nope. And believe me, I've tried."

"Maybe you've just not tried hard enough."

"Rodney..."

"No," Rodney says, holding up a hand. He should look ridiculous, waving his arms about in bare feet and boxers, but he doesn't. He just looks like his _amator_ , all wild eyes and barely contained energy, always asking _who_ and _what_ and _why why why_.

Iohannes wants to cross the room. He wants to cross the room and kiss his _amator_. He wants to kiss Rodney wetly and messily and then tug him down to the floor, not even wanting to break apart for the ten-and-a-half seconds it takes to get to the bed. He wants to deepen the kiss until Rodney moans and rolls them over, so that Iohannes is on his back and Rodney is making short work of his clothes. He wants the rug burn from the ugly as sin carpet they'd got given for helping sort out the irrigation problem on Saritos six months ago, and the beard burn from the five o'clock shadow it's taken Rodney the better part of a week to scrape together. He wants to feel Rodney inside him and around him.

More than that, though, he wants to go to bed surrounded by the curl of Rodney's body. He wants to wake up next to Rodney early in the morning, trying not to wake him as he slips out for his morning run with Ronon. He wants Rodney to shake him awake in the middle of the night when their comms go off and there's a crisis they need to solve. He wants to argue _Star Trek_ with him while they eat breakfast and P versus NP with him over dinner. He wants to listen to him try to explain the intricacies of various bizarre Terran customs to their team while they hike to the nearest settlement when they're off-world and insult the local chieftains (and their daughters) when they get there. He wants to sit with him in the quiet parts of the city and listen to Atlantis' music, as all _custodiae_ should, and try to talk him into becoming a _pastor_ , as all _pastores_ should.

He wants to grow old with Rodney and die at his side.

He wants to grow old.

"Did I ever thank you," Iohannes asks softly, interrupting the speech Rodney is giving about the scientific method and how maybe trying to sleep next to someone would yield different results than to sleep alone, "for finding me?"

Rodney stops mid-rant, his hands hanging strangely in the air before falling limply to his sides. "What?"

"I didn't, did I?"

"John, what are you talking about?"

"I spent ten thousand years waiting for you," he presses, pushing away from the desk and stopping as close to Rodney as he dares in his current state. "I didn't know I was waiting, but I was... Now that I look back on it, I can see I was just going through the motions before you came along."

Rodney takes a step back - not to move away, but to better look him in the eye when he breathes Iohannes' name.

"But all that changed after you found me," he continues. "You're not just my best friend: you're the thing I've been looking for all these years. The part of me that was missing and I didn't even know it.

"So you really don't have to try so hard to make me stay. I'm not going anywhere if you don't want me to - though I really, really think you should. I mean, I love you, but I don't see anyway this can work with me like this. But if you want me to stay, I'll stay."

Rodney takes another step back and turns towards the bedroom. "Let's go to bed."

Iohannes follows, unable to do anything else.

* * *

The thing about being unable to sleep is that it leaves him laying in the dark beside a body he's unable to touch, which makes him feel like more of a creep than he can adequately describe.

After three hours, he slips out of bed with the intention of leaving - of wandering some of Atlantis' less well-used halls until sunrise, or maybe even making his way down the North Pier and looking into how much work would be needed to bring the auxiliary control room back to fighting trim - but something stops him. Iohannes doesn't know what. It's not like he's not done it before, when a few hours is all he could manage before he woke in cold sweat. But...

But it seems cruel to do that to Rodney now. Not after he'd been stolen from their bed and forced to Ascend.

He goes back to the main room instead and tries to figure out what to do until morning. Being intangible, among its other fringe benefits, means that most of his usual activities are no longer options. All he's able to do is contemplate his own Enlightenment - and that stopped being interesting twenty minutes in.

Iohannes tries anyway, for the sake of trying to figure out how to become tangible within the bounds of his parole, but gives up after an hour.

He spends the rest of the predawn hours contemplating his _manuballista_ instead.

* * *

"Normally I'd be the first one to admit that you with a gun is one of the hotter things I've had the privilege to see in my life," Rodney says an indeterminable amount of time later, startling him from his reverie, "but this is just a little too much confirmation of your self-destructive tendencies for me to process without coffee."

Iohannes tears his gaze away from the _manuballista_. He's surprised to see sunlight pouring through the windows and his _amator_ fully dressed in the archway.

"Huh?" he asks intelligently as his thought processes try to catch up on what he's seeing.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Look, I know you're not actually suicidal, but you look about two seconds away from eating your gun and it's making me more than a little uncomfortable."

"Eat my..." he repeats dimly before he sorts through the idiom. "What? No. I was thinking."

"And this thinking involved a gun _why_?"

"Just look at it, Rodney."

"I am, for all the good it's doing. What's so special about it? It looks like your typical, run-of-the-mil Ancient energy weapon."

"This gun doesn't exist."

Frowning, "What do you mean _this gun doesn't exist_? It looks real enough to me."

"It was in my holster when I came back from the higher planes. It's nothing but a manifestation of my essence - a little bit of me making itself look gun-shaped for whatever reason. And yet..." Iohannes cocks the _manuballista_ at an empty coffee mug perched on the desk on the other side of the room and fires. The cup explodes into a thousand tiny shards.

"What the hell!"

"Don't you get it?"

"That you've decided to escalate your dislike of coffee to acts of wanton destruction against it?"

" _Rodney_ ," he says fervently as he climbs to his feet, "this gun _does not exist_. It _should not_ be able to act like a gun, and yet it does. And when I do this," he tosses it onto the couch, "it _continues to exist_ for almost a minute before reappearing in my holster. Y'know what that means?"

"God, no."

"It means," Iohannes says, "that I can become corporeal again."

* * *

"So explain this to me again," Rodney says, tailing Iohannes to his office. It's as good a place to meditate as anywhere, with the upshot that no one will ever think to check for him there if they come looking. "How does a gun help you Descend?"

"I told you, I _can't_ Descend. As in _physically cannot_. Believe me, I've tried. No, this is more... Y'know how light behaves has both particles and waves?"

This earns him a mildly curious, mostly disgusted glare. "Of course."

"Well, it's like I said, right? This gun is not actually a gun. It's gun-shaped energy. But it still acts like a gun."

"I noticed," Rodney says blandly. "You owe me a new coffee cup by the way."

"You have like twenty-three."

"You can never have too many coffee cups."

"Yes, you can. There is a coffee cup event horizon beyond which only chaos and social collapse ensues, and you passed it like ten coffee cups ago."

"As a man who only drinks tea, I don't think you should have a say in determining the so-called _coffee cup event horizon_."

"Hey," Iohannes says, holding up his hands placatingly as they walk down the last hall, "if you can track down more than twelve of your coffee cups at a time, I will drop the subject entirely."

"You're on."

"We'll have to change the bet, though," Iohannes muses as the door to his office sides open. "I think I'm on the right track, but I doubt that I'll be tangible enough for it by the end of the week."

Rodney rolls his eyes, pausing in the doorway. There's a staff meeting in twenty minutes he needs to get to - that they both need to get to, but Woolsey is bound to be there and Iohannes is boycotting the IOA's dog and pony show on principle. "I still don't understand how you're planning on doing it." If Woolsey wants to talk to him, he'll have to find him, and good luck with that. Nobody knows Atlantis like Iohannes does.

"Look, when I Ascended, all my mass got converted to energy, right?"

"I guess."

"Trust me on this: I'm just an Alteran-shaped ball of electromagnetic radiation right now. Which sucks, by the way."

"So what, you think that if you can make gun-shaped energy behave like a gun, you can make you-shaped energy behave like you're supposed to?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"You think it will work?"

"If I can figure out why my gun's behaving and I'm not, then yeah. Sure. No problem. Probably," he hedges, trying his luck as he leans against his desk.

Iohannes is pretty sure he manages to keep most of his essence to himself, but he's pretty sure some of it decides to check out the computer on his desk if the hopeful, booting-up sounds its making are any indication. "Might take me a while, though. I was never any good at this meditation stuff."

Rodney snorts. "Of course not. You know your guns better than you know yourself. Hell, I'm still surprised you managed to Ascend the first time. I mean- John? Are you alright? Your eyes have gone all white and glowy again. Is it the others? Are they trying to call you back?"

"I'm fine," Iohannes says, hearing his voice as if from a great distance. He blinks a couple of times, until Rodney's looking at him a little less worriedly. "I'm beyond fine. In fact, if I'd half the chance of figuring it out in the next ten seconds, I'd be pushing you up against the door and-"

Having gone from pale white to burning red faster than Iohannes would have believed possible, Rodney squawks, "John!" utterly scandalised. "You can't _say_ things like that. Not where people might overhear."

"Please. The only one who ever comes here - besides you - is Lorne and, trust me, he's heard worse."

"That doesn't make it _better_ , you moron."

"It should. But I'll forgive you, 'cause I think you figured it out."

"Figured _what_ out?"

"That I should've paid more attention to biology class."

"And now you're making even less sense than usual."

"Rodney, you said it: _I know this gun better than I know myself._ I can tell you how it works, and why, and field strip it with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. But I've got no clue how _I_ work. So maybe if I can figure that out..."

"See. Told you we'd figure something out."

"Nobody likes a show off," Iohannes grumbles halfheartedly, pushing away from the desk. If he's got to meditate, he might as well do it right - so lotus position on the floor it is.

Rodney smiles cheekily at him before turning to go. "You do."

"Yeah. I do," he smiles back, and for the first time in twenty-six days, John feels hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chappie was plagued by word processing problems, so if any formating issues are to be found, they're the ones I missed on the cleanup. It's also almost nothing liked I'd originally planned, but I think Iike how it turned out a whole fraking lot better. Though the remainders of the old version might become another drabble. Or their own fic. After all, Woolsey must make an appearance sometime.  
> Other news, manuballista means crossbow, but has been retconned to mean Personal Defence Weapon/ Attack Riffle in this verse. There's at least one reference to another Millenium Prize Problem an The Hitchhicker's Guide to the Galaxy in this. Cookies to you if you find it. And Cookies to popkin16 for putting up with all my whinning during this one. If there's anything else, let me know and I'll try to answer it for you.


	4. Manes, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get our SG-1/SGA crossover in this fic. For that reason, there is a lot of general housekeeping for this one:  
> In case you skipped "Fratris Filii," all you really need to know is that Sam and Jack are married as of the end of SG1's S7 and have a kid, Jacob Daniel, aka "Jake," who was born on 22 Janurary, 2006.  
> SG-1's "Camelot" (s9e20) and "Flesh and Blood" (s10e1) take place on 29 June, 2006 - ie, the Battle of P3Y-229. Vala gave birth to the Orici, Adria, on that date, and Ori ships are now in the Milky Way. Odyssy delivers SG-1 to Atlantis on 28 July, 2006.  
> As a reminder, Iohannes Ascended on 22 May, 2006. The events of "Idolon" take place on 14/15 June, 2006. Almost six weeks have passed since then.

Daniel cannot tell where the sky stops and the sea begins as Odyssey begins its approach. Atlantis is still a glittering gem in the distance, but one that is growing rapidly on the viewscreen. He has seen dozens of pictures of the Ancient's lost city, has read hundreds of documents relating to its abandonment, but nothing quite compares to seeing her soaring, shining towers with his own eyes.

The awed silence on the bridge is broken by the crackling of the PA speakers. "Odyssey, this is Flight. You are clear for landing in the main docking bay."

"Understood," Colonel Emerson replies, adding after a brief conference with the pilot, "We have the beacon."

"It's beautiful," Daniel breathes, stepping closer to the viewscreen.

Sam smiles wistfully at him.

(It had been hard enough to get her to rejoin the team when they were still just going on missions in the Milky Way, but she'd been especially leery when the mission meant going to Atlantis. Not that Daniel doesn't think she'll enjoy it - it's a scientist's playground, after all, - but, with the Intergalactic Gate Bridge still months from completion, this trip is going to take at least another three weeks, not counting however long it takes them to find what they need. And two months is a long time to be gone when there's a five-month-old waiting at home for you.

(Well, six-month-old now.

(At least Jack's not going off-world anymore. Her husband might hate his desk job, but he's the only one for the Homeworld Security job and at least it means he's there to pick Jake up from daycare every day. That's something, at least.)

"It is, isn't it?" she says.

"I just wish we weren't in such a rush. It's taken me two years to get here and, with any luck, we'll be leaving in a couple days."

Cam claps his shoulder. "It's just another mission, Jackson."

"One upon which the fate of the entire galaxy hangs in the balance," Vala adds petulantly, poking Cam in the ribs so he'll move over and make space for her in front of the viewscreen. Her eyes are already twinkling with the thought of Ancient treasure.

"And he goes on those all the time."

"Vala's not wrong," Carter muses. "If we don't succeed and the Ori manage to get more ships through the Supergate..."

Daniel touches his hand to the glass. They're almost directly over the city now. Pretty soon they'll be too close to see the towers properly. "I guess we'll just have to enjoy it while we can."

"That's the spirit," Cam says, finally removing his hand from Daniel's shoulder.

A few minor course corrections bring Odyssey level with a (relatively) small, squat building on the edge of one of the city's piers. The roof has retracted partway, offering a gap several times larger than the 304 needs to clear it. Odyssey descends slowly, and before Daniel's eyes have fully adjusted he hears Sam gasp, "Look at the size of that ship," gesturing at the Ancient warship under repair on the far side of the hangar. Aurora, unless the Expedition has managed to acquire another Ancient vessel. "It's got to be at least twice as large as any Asgard ship I've ever seen."

"Forget that," Cam says, shaking his head. "Look at the size of this hangar. You could fit twenty 304s in here, at least."

"I expect it was designed to hold the Tethys-class spaceships Colonel Sheppard told me about. They were the real powerhouses of the Ancient fleet, analogous to the Navy's supercarriers. Palantis-class ships, like Aurora, and Alcaeus-class ones, like Orion, were only what the Ancients scraped together when they needed more ships for their war with the Wraith. They're little more than destroyers in comparison."

"Someone's been doing their homework," Vala snorts.

Daniel finds himself crossing his arms defensively and forcing himself to restrain the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "I've been emailing Colonel Sheppard."

"Stalking is more like it."

"He's the last living Ancient in the universe. Forgive me for wanting to know everything about the Ancients and their culture that he's willing to share." Granted, that sharing was decidedly more military-centric than the Ancients themselves had been, but still. Daniel will take what he can get.

Sam turns away from the viewscreen. "Is he still though? The last livingAncient, I mean."

"Well, he's certainly not dead," Cam offers, following her out to the passageway and towards the forward airlock.

"Just Ascended."

"I don't get it. If this Colonel Sheppard person is Ascended, why did is he hanging around here? I mean, the Ori have got the people of two galaxies believing that Ascension is the best thing ever. What's he know about it that we don't?"

"The Ascension is a recent thing, a punishment of some sort for helping us out as much as he has. He's not been very upfront about the details."

Cam shakes his head, pressing the controls that open the airlock and lower the gangplank. "What I don't get is how it's a punishment. Like the lady said, everyone else and his uncle thinks it's the greatest thing ever. Hell, Jackson, you've Ascended a couple times yourself. Why's he so against it?"

"He just is," Daniel shrugs. "Maybe he has his reasons and maybe they're good ones, but he's not shared them with me. My best guess though? The Ancients took the idea of non-interference pretty seriously, whereas Colonel Sheppard's a big fan of interfering."

"I'm pretty sure there's more than that," Sam adds, going down the gangplank first.

"Like what?" Vala asks, following right behind.

"I don't know, only that it has to be more than that. If it was just not liking their social policies, he wouldn't be so secretive about it."

* * *

They're met at the end of the gangplank by Major Lorne, who's certainly come a long way in the world since his days on SG-11.

"Colonel Carter, Doctor Jackson," he grins at them, "nice to see you again. Colonel Mitchell, Miss Mal Doran, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Major Lorne, the XO of Atlantis' military contingent."

"I've heard good things about you, Major," Cam says, holding out a hand.

Lorne takes it, assuring him, "I'm sure not all of it was lies," before turning to Vala-

-who, rather than shaking his hand, places both her hands on the Major's biceps. "Well aren't youa handsome specimen."

Daniel moves to pull Vala away, apologies already on his lips, but Lorne manages to extricate himself admirably. "Sorry, Miss, I'm already taken."

"Pity," she says, looking barely put out at all. "Lead on then, Handsome."

"That I can do," Lorne laughs, taking them to what looks an awful lot like a ring platform set flush into the floor not too far away, which makes sense, Daniel supposes. Most goa'uld technology is based off of salvaged Ancient tech. Still, it surprises him enough that he almost misses Sam's question-

"So, Major, if you don't mind me asking, who are you seeing?"

-which is probably meant to be good-natured ribbing, if not genuine curiosity, but makes the Major stiffen. It's slight and passes quickly, but it's enough that Daniel picks up on it. By their reactions, he doubts that the others do, though Vala might've. She never lets anyone see anything she doesn't want them to.

Lorne glances over his shoulder briefly. Lightly, he answers, "Doctor Zelenka."

Sam's eyebrows climb, but Daniel's willing to put money on that being on the Major's forthrightness rather than the answer itself. Don't tell, after all, is half of DADT. Still, "Good for you," is all she says before risking a glance at Cam.

Cam, luckily, doesn't seem to realise the implications of the Major's statement. With any luck, it'll stay that way. Major Lorne is a good officer. He doesn't deserve to have his career cut short simply because the American military chooses to prosecute homosexuals.

* * *

* * *

"So you're looking for Moros Lal's Sangraal," Colonel Sheppard says from the top of the stairs as they enter the lower level of Atlantis' Gate Room.

The room itself is large, open, and, like everything else Daniel's seen of the city so far, achingly beautiful. Sunlight floods the room from every direction, huge, magnificent stained glass windows colouring it amber, gold, and Alice blue. It is warm and inviting and homelyin a way the SGC's concrete bunker will never be, and for the first time Daniel understands why John had been so eager to leave the Mountain when the senior staff had gated to Earth last year.

John himself is dressed in a curious mixture of Ancient clothing and Expedition uniform: unlaced combat boots, BDU pants, and a pleated, laced vest that might be the Ancient version of a doublet or a flak jacket underneath an open, sleeveless robe. A pair of old-fashioned bracers cover both his forearms. A Tau'ri handgun is strapped to his thigh. There's silver embroidery running down the front of the robe - intricate geometric patterns that mimic the pattern of the stained glass that shine and glisten in the light, - but other than that the whole outfit is completely black. No, blacker than black. The exact opposite of every other Ascended being Daniel's ever seen, but still seeming to shine with its own impossibly pure light.

Unbidden, a verse from the Hebrew Bible comes to mind unbidden: How you have fallen from Heaven, morning star, sun of the dawn. You have been cast down do the earth..., and Daniel's seen too much of the universe not to wonder if some prophetic hand was in play at it's writing - or, like the ruins on Arkhan, a time-travelling one. Either way, there's something decidedly alien about John now, something that wasn't there before.

Something transcendent, bordering on divine.

As if echoing this thought, the writing on the stairs flares beneath John's feet as he starts down the steps towards them. "I gotta tell you, that has a lotta people upstairs verynervous."

("Is he always like this?" he hears Cam ask quietly, equal parts impressed and incredulous.

(Lorne snorts, as if this scene is nothing. "His flair for the dramatic has gotten worse since he Ascended.")

Daniel ignores both asides and walks towards the base of the stairs. "Why's that?"

"Any weapon that can be used against the Haereticican be used against them as well. Within reason, of course - only about forty kiloparsecs or so."

"I don't suppose you can make this easy for us and tells us where it actually is - or how to build one of our own?"  
John shrugs, stopping on the second to last step. "Science was never my thing. There might be something in Father's notes, but I doubt it. He was never interested in the higher planes."

"Your father?"

"Yes." John says, turning to look at Vala, who'd been the one to ask. "You know him as Janus."  
She gives him a puzzled look. "Oh no, not me. I'm not from Earth. I've actually spent surprisingly little time on it, considering."

"I know."

"You know?"

"You're the mother of the Abomination they call the Orici."

"I know that she may not be the most well-behaved of children, but I wouldn't go so far as to call her an Abomination," she bristles.

"It's a title," John smiles apologetically at her. "The term for someone who retakes human form while retaining their Ascended knowledge. Moros and Ganos became Abominations too. Just most people are smart enough not to remind them of that. At least, not to their faces."

"Oh. Well. That's different then. But," she adds somewhat teasingly, "not very nice."

John gives her a real smile this time - one that reaches his eyes and makes him seem far more human. Mortal. Ephemeral. "I know. They used to call me that too."

"Now that's just mean," Vala says, sauntering over. "I'm sure they could've come up with a better nickname than Abominationfor a handsome specimen such as yourself."

To Daniel's surprise, the Ancient flirts back. He actually winks at as he tells her, "I didn't say that was the only name they called me, gemma."

Her smile in return is utterly brilliant, with only a trace of it's usual lewdness lingering in the way she gives John an almost perfunctory once-over. "You can tell me all about it later, Good Looking. After we get this boring briefing over with."

John just laughs, like she's the most amusing thing he's ever seen. And though he does not take her hand when she offers it, he's still clearly escorting her when they turn and head up the stairs, leaving the rest of them blinking in their wake.

Sam's the first to recover her senses. "What just happened?"

"I'm not sure," Daniel tells her, removing his glasses to polish them, as if dirty lenses might have been the issue all along, "but I think Vala just made a friend."

"Is that even possible?" Cam snorts.

"Up until five minutes ago, I would have said no, but this isa different galaxy. I suppose anything's possible."

"You guys coming?" John calls from the top of the stairs. "The Conference Room is this way."

"Coming," Sam shouts after him, and, for lack of a better explanation, they do just that.

* * *

The briefing is, astonishingly, brief for once. Nearly all the details have been sorted out during their journey across the void; all that remains is to figure out what support personnel Sam, Cam, and Odysseywill need on their mission to dial the Supergate while he and Vala remain behind to research the locations of the Ancient outposts of Castiana and Sahal.

It's so brief, in fact, that the only thing of note is John and Vala's continued flirting, which is both bizarre and infuriating - and maybe even a little bit amusing, not being directed Daniel's way for once.

Vala is outrageous about it, of course, but that's just Vala. Nine times out of ten she doesn't mean anything by it, and, on the rare occasions she does, it's usually only to gain access to some artefact or bit of knowledge her mark has. But John... John is utterly casual about it, to the point where Daniel decides he must not even realise he's doing it.

To tell the truth, though, it's Rodney's reaction to all of this that he finds the most interesting, which is probably cruel of him but, hell, Daniel's still not quite forgiven the guy for almost killing Teal'c a few years back. Because it's only when Vala says anything that Rodney reacts, as if it's herfault John is flirting with her. As almost everything Vala says is a double entendre of one sort or another, his frown steadily turns into a scowl and then into a glare until it becomes almost a full-body flinch every time she opens her mouth.

Sickly, Daniel's almost hoping for a confrontation (or, at the very least, an explanation), but John rushes out of the Conference Room almost the moment the briefing ends.

Cam darts after, eager as always to become pals with their off-world allies, as if doing so might prove to anyone who might question it that he's earned his position on SG-1.

Elizabeth shakes her head after them. "Flyboys," she says, offering Daniel a conspiratorial smile. "It's impossible to get them to stay still for long."

Rodney snorts, gathering his things. "You should see him to to meditate."

"That bad, huh?"

"Like staring at a statue, actually. Nine kinds of disturbing."

"Well," Elizabeth declares, rising, "it should take Odysseyat least another two hours to unload our supplies, so you have some time to rest or explore the city if you'd like."

The noise Sam makes upon hearing this is almost indecent. "I'd kill for real shower, actually. Something with more than a minute-and-a-half of room temperature water and institutional soap."

"I think we can manage that. If you give me a moment, I can show you to the guest quarters. Doctor Jackson? Whenever you're ready, just find Colonel Sheppard. He's agreed to help you and Miss Mal Doran with your research. And Rodney-" she turns to say something to Doctor McKay, only to find he's not there.

A quick glance shows he's across the Control Room, on the opposite balcony.

He and Colonel Sheppard are standing face-to-face, closer than you usually see men - even lovers - standing in public. It's hard to tell from this distance, but they don't appear to be arguing, just speaking softly.

After a minute or two of this, John lifts his hands slowly, placing them on Rodney's shoulders in a movement that is achingly full of both practise and intent. Then he tilts his head forward and touches it to Rodney's. It's perfectly chaste and they break apart after no more than a few seconds, but Daniel can't help but feel he's intruded on something more intimate than sex and looks away before they can catch him watching.

When he looks back, Rodney is gone and John is still standing there, alone, a bright, still figure amid the barely-contained chaos of the Gate Room.

Daniel quits the Conference Room, intending to catch John before he can slip away, but is is waylaid almost immediately by Cam's hand upon his arm.

Cam himself is barely past the Conference Room door, still on the opposite balcony from the Ancient. "Holy shit," he says, looking a kicked puppy. "I didn't see that coming."

"See whatcoming?"

"That the last Ancient in the universe is gay."

Daniel blinks. "So?"

"So?" Cam hisses, incredulous. "Soyou didn't think this might be important to mention earlier?"

"Not really, no."

"Hasn't anyone explained the Uniform Code to him?"

Daniel exhales, relieved that this seems to be Cam's most major concern. He likes Cam, he really does, but sometimes he just says things that reveal his bible-belt upbringing. Or the homophobia of his military culture.

"Yeah. I just don't think he cares."

"He should. They'll chapter him out if they find out."

"I honestly don't think he cares."

Cam shakes his head. Then, running a hand through his hair, "So what was all that with Vala then?"

"The flirting? I don't know. I think it's just their version of small talk."

"Weird, man."

He pushes his glasses back up his nose. "I'm not so sure. I mean, Colonel Sheppard's father, Janus, was known to have dozens - if not hundreds - of lovers. Growing up surrounded by that, I'd be more surprised if John didn'tflirt with everything that moves."

"Hundreds?"

Daniel grins at him. "Something like that, yes. Though I'd imagine the Colonel would be considered something deviant by their standards. The Ancients were functionally pansexual," he explains, "but they also considered humans evolutionarily beneath them, sort of like we regard chimpanzees."

"Whoa, man!" Cam yelps, holding up a hand in the universal simple for shut the fuck up. "The dude's gay, I got that. I really didn't need to know the rest, Jackson," he shudders. Then, almost thoughtfully, remarks, "I guess that explains the hair then and all that, y'know," he waves his hand along his jacket's zipper, "embroidery."

Daniel just rolls his eyes, reminding himself that his friend isn't actually a bigot - he just sounds that way sometimes. "Doctor Weir said it's going to be at least two hours before Odysseyis ready to head out again, so you might want to get some rest. Sam's gone off in search of a shower, so you're going to be on your own."

"You and Vala going into research mode?"

"Going to try to, at least."

"Try not to get distracted? I know this place is Daniel Disneyland, just... find the weapon first, okay?"

"No pressure."

* * *

"So what's it like to be Ascended?" Vala asks. She's walking backwards in front of him and John as they head to the Pyxis- Atlantis' map room, - and every now and then Daniel will have to reach out to manoeuvre her out of the way of a water ballast or warn her of approaching stairs. "I only ask because everyone else seems to think it's the best thing since toasted marshmallows-"

"Sliced bread," Daniel corrects.

"Whatever. I just want to know why everyone else wants it and you don't."

John shrugs. "I like this plane of existence."

"Isn't the next one supposed to be better or something?"

"So they tell me."

"You don't know?" Daniel asks, trying to edge into the conversation. He's spent yearsstudying the Ancients and now that the impossible has happened and he's finally accorded the chance to talk with the very last one. He doesn't want to waste it talking about Ascension (a topic he's more than familiar with, thank you very much, even if he doesn't remember any of it); he wants to talk about Ancient culture and history and the events that led to the Schism between them and the Ori.

"Didn't exactly see a lot of it while I was there," John admits, stopping at the end of a long hallway - a hallway with apparently nothing down it other than a few wall sconces on one side and huge stained glass window on the other. "Spent most of the time on trial."

Regardless of his efforts, Vala manages to appropriate the conversation once again. "Trials suck."

"The first one's interesting, but after you've been through a couple..." the Ancient agrees.

"They've tried me nine times but only ever convicted me twice, and both those times I was able to break out of their detention facilities inside a week."

"This was only my fourth time, but it never works out well for me. I always manage to talk myself into worse trouble, which is how I ended up with three life sentences instead of one."

"What'd you do? Kill somebody important? Rob a planet?"

"I interfered."

"You interfered?" Vala asks, tugging on the end of one of her ponytails, "Interfered with what?"

"Doesn't matter. It's the crime I plead guilty to."

"See, that's your problem right there, Good Looking. Never plead out. Pleading out implies that you're guilty, and you should never, ever, admit you've done anything wrong."

"Well, it was either that or let them convict me for Haeresis, and that would've been much, much worse."

Vala flips her ponytail back over her shoulder with a frown. "What's that?"

"He means Origin," Daniel explains, thankful for the chance to interrupt. "And not to rush you, but we really need to get started on this research, so if you could...?"

John doesn't say anything. He just raises a single eyebrow and gestures to the wall behind them. Several of the wall panels have pivoted open, revealing a medium-sized room, empty save for a small central dais.

"This is the Map Room?"

"Yeah. It's not exactly designed for research, but it's a lot easier to use if you don't know what you're looking for. At least, that's what the other Terrans tell me. Personally, I'd rather fiddle around with a workstation somewhere than use the holographic interface, but that's just me."

"Why's that?"

"Ganos is a condescending meretrix who is constitutionally incapable of understanding that people might have wants or needs that might run at cross-purposes to her own and her hologram is little better, with the added bonus that it doesn't care if you know it thinks you're an idiot or not. And bear in mind that she designed this program for small children.But don't take my word for it," John gestures violently at the dais, upon which the image of a dark-haired woman has just flickered into existence, "talk to her yourselves."

"You mean Morgan le Fey used herself as the template for this program?" Daniel's not sure how he feels about that. Morgan le Fey had been determined to stop Merlin from building the Sangraal. Her hologram might not be willing to help them complete his work, even if it had been created several thousand years before the events in question.

"Yeah," John says, studying the hologram intently, "that's Ganos." It looks like he wants to say something else, but then his eyes snap to the ceiling and he begins spitting out curses instead. "Sorry. I've got to run. Another one of our trade partners has dialled in, wanting to introduce their friends to their god, the Ancestor."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Vala says.

"Yes, well, this time someone's brought the Genii," John informs them, running a hand through his hair. "I've gotta go, but I'll be back as soon as I can." His eyes - which are now glowing with a bright, white light that casts no shadows - jerk back to the hologram. "Try to be nice and helpful, Ganos," he orders it.

Ganos' hologram shows no emotion as she states, "Invalid query."

"Of course it is." John snorts before running his hand through his hair once more. Then he turns and disappears into the ether, leaving no trace behind that he was ever here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, in other important notes: Alcaeus is a latin version of Heracules. Ships of that class were built on Nebrius. Taranis was a Nebrian outpost. Cam and Vala didn't come on the scene until S9 of SG1, after Atlantis' senior staff returned to Pegasus following the events of "The Siege" and as so have never met Iohannes or Rodney. The quote is from The Book of Isiah and if if you can guess who it actually is supposed to refer to, kudos to you, I think. 40 kiloparsecs is just slightly larger than the size of the Milky Way. Gemma means gem. Pyxis is compass. Oh, and Manes are good/ambivolent household gods or ghosts of one's ancestors.


	5. Imperator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #21.5 in the Ancient!John 'verse, set between parts 1 & 2 of "Manes;" spoilers for SG1's "The Pegasus Project" and SGA's "Coup D'etat"

It's a tossup, really, as to whether Iohannes hates the Wraith or the Genii more.

The Wraith, after all, are just trying to survive. They may be cruel and capricious, but they only cull the Descendant worlds to feed. The Descendants raise and slaughter cattle for the exact same reasons and no one calls them evil - for the most part, anyway. So, yes, they may have destroyed four of the five great urbes-naves that had left the home galaxy so long ago and slaughtered millions upon millions unchecked over the millennia while he slept, but they had never done any of it out of malice.

Well, except maybe what they'd done to his own people, but that was survival too, in its own way.

But the Genii...

The Genii may, in fact, be truly evil. At the very least, they're villainous in the extreme. They are liars and cheats, who've fallen prey to the same delusion Iohannes' own people had ever suffered: that, because they are the most advanced culture in the galaxy, they are naturally it's masters and may do with it as they please. They may have the most noble of intentions (id est, the destruction of the Wraith), but they care nothing for the individuals they sacrifice to this goal.

To say nothing of their attempted takeover of Atlantis and all that had entailed.

So it really is a tossup: the Wraith, who have no choice but to kill, or the Genii, who have become that which they seek to destroy. If pressed, he'll go with the Wraith, but only because he's got a couple thousand years of baggage with them.

But he still hates the Genii with the particular vengeance he reserves for those he'd gladly destroy if ever given the chance.

* * *

Iohannes enters the lower level of the Gate Room unnoticed after learning from 'Lantis that one of their allies has brought the Genii to meet their god, which is precisely how he wants it.

Most the eyes in the room are on Elizabeta and the ally in question, Caileon Pero, father of the Taranin girl who'd asked if he was an Ancestor months ago. They're paused about halfway up the Gate Room stairs, arguing as this is the sixth such introduction Caileon's made in half as many weeks despite having been told after each that Iohannes and Atlantis would rather be left alone. But Caileon remains persistent in thinking that since it was his daughter Iohannes revealed his true nature to that it is his job to spread the word of the Ancestor's existence: Iohannes' own private caduceator.

Those few eyes that aren't on Caileon and Elizabeta have guns in their hands and are directing them at their Genii guests: one a young blonde woman with shadows under her eyes and a gaunt face he does not recognise, the other a dark-haired middle-aged man he knows all too well.

"If it isn't Ladon Radim," Iohannes says, causing half the room to jump in surprise. "What d'you want?"

"I'll only speak with the Ancestor."

"And why'd you want to do that?"

"I've no wish to spend what little time we have bantering with you."

"Why?" Iohannes asks with a grin, approaching the ring the sentries have made of the space in front of the porta. "Afraid I'll give you another crack to the head if you annoy me?"

"Hardly, Major. I'm just not interested in talking to the errand boy."

"That's Lieutenant Colonel Errand boy to you."

"My felicitations," Ladon says dryly.

"And to you. Becoming First Minister, that must have been difficult, particularly when you had Cowen so convinced you were his right-hand man. Then again," he adds, a smile starting to split Iohannes' face as watches Ladon's eyes widen with surprise, "maybe not, as you managed to have Kolya thinking the exact same thing and look how it turned out for him."

Suspicious now, Ladon steps forward - not much, but just enough to stand in front of the woman, who's yet to speak and looking paler by the minute. "How do you know these things? How many spies do you have among my people? Is Caileon one of them? Is this story of an Ancestor returned nothing but a ruse to lure me here, to behead the Genii leadership and get revenge in one fell swoop?"

"It's not a ruse," Iohannes snorts, sidestepping Gunny Blake to stand inside the perimeter the sentries have formed. "And Caileon's not a spy. Misguided, maybe, but not a spy."

Ladon's eyes narrow. "Then how?"

"Guess."

Which is, naturally, the point at which Caileon notices he's arrived.

"Lord Iohannes!" the Taranin shouts, tripping down the stairs two at a time in his effort to reach him. "Milord Iohannes, it's go good to see you again." Caileon skitters around the Gunnery Sergeant to stand inside the circle of guns, utterly uncaring of the weapons he's placed in front of himself. "I know you said that I should stop bringing people to meet you, but then I was away trading on Genia and found out that they'd not heard about you, Milord, so I told them how one of the gods had returned to deliver the galaxy from the Wraith demons, and how you rescued my people from the volcano and gave us our new homeworld, and how you healed Caitria and saved her baby.

"She's near to bursting, Caitria, by the way, and she says that if it's a boy she's going to call it Iohannes after you, Milord-"

"Caileon."

"-or maybe John, since it'll be easer for a young'un to say. Either way, I was in the marketplace, telling the folks about your return when Genii Gendarmerie came and took me to the Reichstag so I could tell the Ministers. And then First Minister Radim here asked me to take him to meet you and maybe see if you could heal his sister, Dahlia, and so here we are. I knew you wouldn't mind."

Iohannes pinches the bridge of his nose.

He can feel the faith bleeding through the Taranin's words, Caileon's ardent belief in Iohannes' divinity creating sending a steady stream of strength to his god. It's not much - barely a thimbleful against the barely-constrained ball of energy Iohannes has become since his Ascension, - but with every convert the self-made missionary makes, more thimblefuls make their way across the galaxy to him, the one man within it who can make use of it's power.

The word of his existence has made it's way to twenty-three worlds already. Not every person on each has heard nor do all that do believe, but the faith of thousands makes a respectable addition to the power already at Iohannes' command. And this number grows daily, to the point that word will have reached every ear in Pegasus before the year is out.

Iohannes has little temptation to use this power as of yet. For the moment, mastering the most basic of skills is enough for him. It is a struggle still to touch, though he can manage it with some concentration. Even then, it is only the crudest of facilities - pressure without subtly, sensation without sharpness - lacking any fine detail. He may not be able to feel the heat of Rodney's body or the softness of his skin, but he can now at least feel the body wrapped around his when they lay in bed. That he has managed so much in six weeks gives Iohannes hope that the rest will come to him with time.

But time is his curse. Perhaps, while the faithful are few, he will be able to resist the urge to use the power they give him. Perhaps, while his friends live, he will be able to check the urge even after the entire galaxy has fallen prey to their particular brand of haeresis. Perhaps he will be able to combat it for a long time after.

But thirty thousand years is a long time. Iohannes doesn't know how strong he may be, but he knows that when the moment comes and his ill-gotten power is the only thing that stands between his enemy and the destruction of Atlantis - and that day will one day come, - he will use every ounce of it at his command to save her. And then the others will carry out their threat and destroy the homeworlds of all of his worshipers and he will be left alone and powerless in an utterly lifeless galaxy, unable to anything but contemplate his own damnation among the echoes of an empty city-

That is, unless he is powerful enough to prevent the others from doing all those planets, in which case he will be no better than the Haeretici the Terrans now fight and equally deserving of destruction.

No, it is better that it never comes to that. Best to squash this new haeresis now, before it becomes a problem. Which Iohannes may very well be able to do, but only if he can convince the likes of Caileon Pero that he is not a god, has never been, and never will be.

Iohannes releases the bridge of his nose and opens his eyes. "Caileon."

"Yes, Milord?"

"I know you mean well, but we've talked about this."

"I know you say, Milord, but what other explanation is there? No one but a god could do the things you've done."

Iohannes breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. It serves absolutely no purpose but he's discovered that there are times when deep breaths are necessary irregardless of one's metabolism. All too many of these involve Caileon.

Elizabeta, luckily, saves him the trouble of coming up with something to say after this breath by saying herself, "Caileon, why don't we go to my office so that Colonel Sheppard can sort things out with Ladon? I'm sure there's a lot they need to talk about."

It's a minor miracle, but Caileon takes the bait and bounds back up the stairs, either completely missing or misreading the look Elizabeta sends Iohannes' way. The one that says he's going to owe her for this, big time.

And then there is silence-

-but only for a moment.

"So," Ladon enjoins at the end of it, examining Iohannes as if he were something small and interesting beneath a microscope, "you're an Ancestor."

"Yes."

Ladon nods thoughtfully, as if this new information explains some things he had been curious about. "You're also obviously not a god."

"No," Iohannes agrees, so pleased to have someone recognize this that he catches himself smiling at the Genii First Minister. He can't bring himself to care. "My people may have created yours, but we were as mortal as you are."

Ladon continues nodding. "I have often argued that the existence of so many Ancestral artefacts is proof enough that our forebears were not divine beings, but it is not a popular philosophy among my people. Most would rather still believe that our good luck and level of advancement are proof that we, out of all peoples in this galaxy, are the Ancestors' chosen people."

Yes, Iohannes remembers now. Ladon is a man of science above everything else, even his political aspirations. He was only a soldier because all Genii were soldiers, at least for a time, and had only remained in service as long as he had because his skill-set had been deemed irreplaceable. He is the Rodney of the Genii, and if that isn't a moderately disturbing thought, Iohannes doesn't know what is.

"If you do not believe, why did you come?"

"It is as Caileon said: my sister is sick." He gestures at the woman behind him. "I had hoped there was truth enough to his claims that she could be cured of the illness in her blood."

"We can have Carson take a look at her. There might be something he can do for her."

"No," Ladon says, shaking his head. "I have seen your medicines. They are advanced, but not much more than our own, and our doctors say she has very little time left to her. What she requires now is a miracle."

"You don't believe in miracles."

"I would believe in anything, for her sake."

The words, "Stand down," tumble out of Iohannes' mouth almost of their own accord. Despite his hatred for the Genii, he cannot deny the sincerity behind the First Minister's words. It may make him as big a fool as Cowen and Kolya, but he wants to trust Ladon.

The sentries lower their guns.

"Thank you," Ladon's sister says. So far, it's the only thing she's said the entire time she and her brother have been on Atlantis, and sounds so thin and reedy it's heartbreaking.

Ladon steps back and wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. "My sister does not like guns."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it when people try to take Atlantis from me, so forgive my men for being a little twitchy."

"As a member of Kolya's strike team, I was following orders. I harbour no ill will towards you or your people, Ancestral or otherwise."

"I believe you."

"Then you will allow us to return to Genia?"

Iohannes bites his lower lip. It's stupid and will probably only fuel the haeresis when Caileon hears about it, but... "I'd like to try to heal your sister first. If that's alright with her."

"How?"

He holds up a hand, letting it flare with white light. "Let's just say I'm a tad bit further along the evolutionary ladder and leave it at that."

Ladon looks to his sister. "It's your choice, Dahlia."

Dahlia looks between Iohannes and her brother several times before asking, "Will it hurt?"

"No."

"Then what do I have to do?"

"Give me your hands," Iohannes says, stepping forward, "and try not to pray."

* * *

Dahlia's sickness is a leuchaemia of the lymphocyti.

In some ways, this is lucky, for, order to become tangible, Iohannes has had to learn how his own body is supposed to work. Carson's focus for this week's Intro to Alteran Biology had been on the circulatory system, and so the knowledge how how her blood is supposed to be is fresh in his mind.

But Dahlia is also in the final stages of her disease. There are diseased cells in her lien and lecur as well as her blood. A mass as formed within her left lung. Her body is dying. Dahlia will be dead within a month without intervention.

So Iohannes intervenes. He cannot repair the diseased cells, but he can burn them from her body and fix the error that caused them in the first place. He can do nothing for the mass either, but Carson should be able to remove that easily enough once she has created new lymphocyti. But there are so many diseased cells...

* * *

He heals her in under five minutes.

He doesn't even feel winded.

* * *

They take her to Carson anyway, just to be sure. And while the good doctor examines Dahlia in the Observation Room, her brother questions Iohannes on the balcony above.

It's oddly like being questioned by Rodney - or, at least, as it had been, when he'd still been a shiny new specimen for Rodney to study, in the first weeks of the Expedition. Now that it seems his sister will live, Ladon seems hopeful, almost cheerful, and the scientist within him is starting to bleed through.

So is the politician.

"I do not understand. Why do you chose to hide what you are?"

"The Genii did just that for millennia."

"For self-defence," Ladon protests. "We never would have been allowed to develop as much as we have if the Wraith had known the full extent of our civilisation. But you are an Ancestor-"

"Alteran."

"Alteran," he concedes. "Your knowledge and power is unmatched by anyone in this galaxy. What have you to fear from the Wraith?"

"I am just one guy."

"You have two hundred soldiers under you command."

"You have several thousand."

"But don't you see?" the Genii First Minister is practically vibrating now, as if his excitement cannot be contained within his body, but must form a haze of feeling about him as well. "An Ancestor would be a rallying point for the peoples of this galaxy. Too long have our individual worlds waged individual wars against a common enemy. We must all of us join together or the Wraith will destroy all of us in time. And the only thing that could unite us under a single banner is an Ancestor."

"No," he insists. Vehemently, pushing away from the balcony railing and retreating to the far corner. Bracing himself against the wall there, Iohannes crosses his arms and reminds him, "I am not a god and won't pretend to be."

"Then don't be one," Ladon persists. "The people of this galaxy are not stupid. They have merely been denied the chance for their civilisations to progress. Give them a little science, teach them a the true history of this galaxy, and they will see you for what you really are."

Iohannes snorts. "And what am I, First Minister Radim?"

"The last member of the greatest race that ever lived. Not a god of old, but a teacher of men - and a friend to all the peoples of this galaxy, even those who would do him harm."

He arches an eyebrow now. "And are we friends, First Minister?"

"Dahlia is the only family I have left in the universe, Colonel, and you healed her without asking anything from my people in return. If that does not make us friends, then I would certainly like to become so."

Iohannes uncrosses his arms. "I will not be a god."

"You won't be," Ladon promises.

"I've no burning desire to rule the galaxy either."

"Nor do I. Honestly, that was Cowen's dream. All I want is what's best for my people. And if that's a thousand planets united beneath an Ancestral ruler, then that's what I'll take. And if that ruler is little more than a figurehead, ruling in title alone, so much the better for all of us.

"So, what do you say? Do we have an alliance?"

Iohannes shakes his head. "The time of alliances is over," he says, recalling the broken pact that had once remained between the Asgard, Alterans, Nox, and Furlings and of which he would soon be the last surviving member. "They may, however, be ripe for a confederacy."

Ladon smiles at him, wide and honest and true. "Then I think we've the start of a very profitable friendship, Lord Iohannes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caduceator means hearld or messenger. Leuchaemia is leukiemia. Lymphocyi are white blood cells. Lien is spleen. Lecur is liver.  
> An Alliance exists betwee soverign nations. A Confederacy is between semi-independant states.  
> Oh, yes, and Imperator means Emperor.


	6. Manes, Part 2

"So," John asks without looking up from where he's sprawled on the floor of the Chair Room, "Ganos give you what you need?"

Daniel sputters. Upon discovering that the Map Room hologram of Morgan le Fey had not been a hologram at all but rather the actual Ascended Ancient who'd designed it in the first place, Daniel had torn through Atlantis looking for the lone inhabitant who could have known the truth - and, quite possibly, the locations of Castiana and Sahal - all along. He'd expected an argument or, at the very least, some denial of the truth, after calling John out on it. Because that's what Ancients do: they speak in riddles and half-truths and get pissy when they're called out on it. So it's safe to say that he's a little surprised that John's not playing the same games.

John glances away from his magazine - a three-month old International Journal of Number Theory dedicated almost in it's entirety to his solution to the Riemann Hypothesis - just long enough to verify that Daniel's still standing in the doorway before flipping the page. With a smirk, he adds, "Yeah, Ganos generally has that effect on people. Believe it our not, she's actually loosened up over the millennia. You'd not believe what she was like back when I had her for school growing up."

For some reason, Daniel's only able to process the tail end of this. "Morgan le Fey was your teacher?"

John snorts, as if this is somehow funny. "Why do you think she made the teaching program in the first place?"

It's Daniel's turn to frown. "Why would she need to make a hologram for you? I imagine the Ancients had one of the best public education systems the universe has ever seen."

"The Academia was shut down about twenty years before I was born," he shrugs. "There just wan't any point in keeping it up when there weren't any kids being born in the city - and there weren't for a long while. Then Ganos had Josua, so everyone thought it made sense for her to teach him, and then I was born and everyone thought they might as well have her teach me too... But that was a mistake. Obviously. I think we managed four or five months before she started building the hologram instead. Not that it was much improvement, but at least it was easier to skip out on." John looks over at Doctor Becket, who's sitting in Atlantis' Control Chair, looking nothing short of terrified as he grips the armrests, "How's it going, Carson?"

The doctor's eyes snap open. Hardly any of the whites are visible. "Bloody awful, that's how it's going. Look, I know what you're trying to do here, but I'm nae your man. I'm a doctor! A medical doctor! You should be teaching Major Lorne how to use this-"  
John rolls his eyes. "Lorne can already use the cathedra just fine. But he's got Rory to look after, and I might not always be around. So the honour falls to you as the next strongest gene carrier."

"Well what about Lieutenant Edison then? He's got the gene - and the military training."

"Sorry, Carson. 'Lantis likes you more. So just close your eyes and try to concentrate."

"But-"

"I'm keeping an eye on things, so don't worry: you couldn't hurt anything if you tried."

Carson doesn't look convinced, but he does as the Colonel asks.

This interlude gives Daniel the time to get his head back in the game. "You knew that the hologram was Morgan le Fey all along." It's not quite the accusation he means it to be, but it's close enough. It at least forces the Ancient to look his way, to take his outrage seriously.

Still, all his anger gets him is a nonchalant shrug and the words, "Yeah. It was kinda hard to miss," before John turns back to his goddamn magazine, apparently uninterested in Daniel's protests.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

John doesn't even bother to look at him this time. "What good would it have done?"

"Good?" he repeats, sounding shrill even to his own ears. "Who cares about good? Do you have any idea how big a deal something like this is to us?"

"I had noticed something along those lines, yes."

"Then why didn't you come back? You could have convinced her to stay, to help us in our fight against the Ori. You could have made her listen to reason!"

The Ancient snorts, continuing to flip through his magazine. "I think you're grossly overestimating Ganos' opinion of me."

"But you could have helped!"

"Forgive me for getting distracted by more important things, like whether or not Atlantis is about to be invaded by a militaristic race of Descendants with an overdeveloped sense of jingoism and an underdeveloped understanding of the atom."

"And what might happen to Atlantis is more important than what will happen to an entire galaxy unless we get some help, and soon?"

"Yes, exactly." John says this so simply, so causally that for a full thirty seconds Daniel has no idea what to say.

Silence reigns. Even Carson, busy trying to get a reaction out of the Control Chair as he is, seems shocked at this. Then, utterly disbelievingly-

"You can't mean that."

The Ancient tosses his magazine aside carelessly. It lands with a louder thud than Daniel would've thought possible from that sort of thing. "Yes, I can," John says slowly, as if his words might get confused if he goes any faster, "and I do."

"How can you say that? I know what Atlantis is and what she must mean to you, but what's one city against the lives of hundreds of billions of people?"

"If you can ask that question, you'll never understand the answer," John tells him, rising to his feet and making for door opposite the one Daniel's still standing in. "C'mon Carson. I promised Ronon and Teyla I'd pick them up from the mainland. We can try this again some other time."

Carson mutters something under his breath about never again as he climbs out of the Control Chair, but Daniel isn't paying him much attention. He's too busy trying to tamp down on the surge of anger that's rising in him.

Ancients are supposed to be moral-

-and virtuous-

-and righteous-

-and benevolent-

-and good-

-and, "God damn it," he's suddenly saying to the Colonel, who's already halfway out the far door.

John turns in the doorway, his robe swirling around him like shadows, and looks at Daniel expectantly. And in that instant, he looks to Daniel's eyes to be incredibly alien - not just different, but utterly beyond human understanding. It's only for an instant, but the impression lingers, as if what was once seen can never be unseen.

It only makes Daniel angrier. "I'm sick and tired of all these hidden clues and cryptic messages," he snaps. "I know you think of us as little more than children, and maybe we are compared to you. But we can't help that. We are young. We're still evolving, still growing. But we're the only ones out there fighting them. And maybe we don't have a chance of winning, but we're the only chance you've got.

"So just stop already with all these stupid games and tell us what we need to know," he implores, "Or, better yet, actually help us, because it's your neck on the lines too. Because, if we lose this war, every soul left alive is going to be praying to the Ori, feeding their need to be worshipped. And then they're going to come after you. And they will utterly destroy you."

John is unmoved. Hell, he doesn't appear to have moved at all, or even breathed. "I've given you all the help I can."

"What help?" Daniel tsks, still fuming. "The only help I've gotten from you is a couple of words about how nobody's going to help us."

"There's no white knight in this scenario, Doctor Jackson. No one's going to come riding to your rescue. There's nothing more I - or Ganos, or Moros, or the Asgard, or anyone - can do to save you. It's time for you to start saving yourself."

"What help?" he repeats, outrage slowly giving away to bitter resignation. He should've known that John would be as useless as the rest, for all the noise he makes about not being like the others. He's still an Ascended Ancient. Despite the pretences, he's still working from the same playbook. The apple cannot fall far from the tree and all that.

John just shakes his head, looking amused and indulgent, like Daniel really is nothing more than a kid in his eyes. "Look, Terra isn't the centre of the universe. It's not even a particularly interesting corner of it, if you ask me. It just happens to have beaten the odds a couple of times, But, yeah, you're family, so if I can help you out, I will. But don't expect me to forget about my responsibilities here and go running off to save it."

"I don't understand. You're Ascended now. You could stop them right now, if you wanted."

"Not that strong, Doctor Jackson," he chuckles, "but thanks for the vote of confidence. Now if you could just make it a little less like blind faith, that'd be great. I've got enough feckless worshipers already; I don't particularly want another one."

Daniel throws his hands into the air. "Then you could convince the others to help! I'm sure all of you together could stop them easily."

"Probably." John flicks his eyes towards the ceiling, - "Possibly," - and back to Daniel. "Maybe. I don't really know. I don't think anyone does. The kind of power a whole galaxy of worshipers must give them..." He shudders. "Now, I've really got to go pick up Teyla and Ronon from the mainland. We have some heavy-duty pow-wowing to do for next week."

"Why?" he narrows his eyes suspiciously, still not certain that the excuse isn't just a cop-out for the rest of their conversation. "What's going on next week?"

"Treaty talks with the Genii. If everything works out, we'll be well on the road to having a real life Federation of Planets, Pegasus Edition, before the year's out."

Daniel blinks. Definitely not what he'd been expecting, that's for sure. "Seriously? That's amazing."

"Oh, yes," John says dryly, starting off down the stairs, "'Cause emperor of the galaxy was exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up."

Daniel blinks again. "Wait," he says, then blinks some more. "Wait, Colonel Sheppard," he asks, running after him, "what do you mean, emperor of the galaxy?"

* * *

It takes three days for Odyssey to limp back from the black hole, damaged as it is by both passing too close to the event horizon and an attacking Wraith hive. It takes another three days to get it space-worthy enough to risk the trek between galaxies, but, in truth, Daniel's grateful for the delay. Any time that he can spend in Atlantis is worth it, despite the hurried nature of their visit.

"It's not like we can't visit again," Cam tells him on the day they finally leave as Odyssey enters hyperspace.

"I know, it's just, I can't help but thinking that, if I only had a little more time, I could convince Colonel Sheppard to actually help us."

"I don't know, Jackson. That guy is weird, even for an alien. I think you'd have a better chance of convincing the sun not to shine or, I dunno, Amy Vanderburg to go out with me."

"Who's Amy Vanderburg?"

"Doesn't matter," he says, shaking his head. "The point is, the dude's whack. I mean, I think he spent half the time we were there talking to himself."

"You mean the city," Daniel corrects, though even he has to admit he found that creepy, especially when Atlantis didn't reply in ways mere mortals could see.

"So he claims. Just face it Jackson: the last living Ancient in the universe is bat-shit crazy. I mean, I'm sure he wasn't exactly a model of sanity before, but ten thousand years plugged into a giant computer has got to mess with your marbles - and not just a little bit, either. I'm talking about two quarters short of a dollar, half-a-burger short of a Happy Meal here."

"Maybe, but when you consider what John's been through, he's holding up remarkably well."

"When you consider what Sheppard's been through," Cam snorts, "you've got to consider if you want a guy like that in charge of a military outpost."

Daniel looks at him askance. "What are you saying? That just 'cause Colonel Sheppard's got a few issues he's got to work through he should be replaced?"

"A few issues? Jackson, the guy can't even touch anything without thinking about it for ten minutes, to say nothing of the fact that he's got the start of his very own religion going over here. I mean, if this keeps up, John Sheppard could be the next Big Bad we've got to deal with."

Shaking his head, "I'm not so sure. I mean, he's done a remarkable job up until now..."

"Yeah, but now he's one step away from becoming the mother-fucking God-Emperor of Pegasus. I don't care how good a guy you think he is underneath all the crazy, nobody's that good. And you know what they say about absolute power. You've certainly seen what the Ori have done with it."

"Maybe, but Colonel Sheppard's got two things that the Ori never had."

"What's that? A boyfriend and a sentient, fully-armed flying city?"

"No," Daniel says dryly, "Well," he admits, "you're half-right anyway. Rodney and Elizabeth will keep him in line, you'll see."

Cam just crosses his arms and stares out the window at the streaks of light going by, unmoved by his words. Daniel just hopes to God that he's right about John.

And then Daniel remembers that the God of the Pegasus galaxy is John, and the beginnings of fear start to claw at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, this one was a b*tch to write, and appeared in several iterations before this came to me, so see the various drabbles for things-this-might-have-been. Two, I never liked Cam, but I promise that everything he says needs to be said - think Rodney in "48 Hours." Three, my html editor is giving me fits, so this has only the most basic of coding, so you've been warned. Also, Four, if you really want to waste a couple hours, see my new and improved timeline for this 'verse, in more user-friendly format than ever before; I wasted three days writing/coding it.  
> And we're in the final days now. I'm 46 days out from shipping out, and while it is my goal to get as far as "The Return, pt1," I cannot say for certain if the muses will agree with me. I will do my utmost best to get there, and to return to this verse as soon as possible afterwards, but there will be a period of at least 9 weeks (12 Feb thru early May) in which I will be unable to post. And while the 18 months of A schools I need to go thru afterwards should keep me in constant internet access thru the end of this verse, I have no idea how much free time I'll have to write.  
> But I shall try


	7. Daemones, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was honestly going to be a one-parter, but then I wrote and rewrote it so many times that I have to post what I have or I'll never finish. Also, "Daemones" is "Demons."

"Just the people I needed to see," Rodney announces, trying to contain the spring in his step as he enters Elizabeth's office. "You'll never guess what I-" He looks from Elizabeth, who's sitting behind her desk with a half-bemused, half-beleaguered expression, to John, who's flopped across one of her armchairs like some kind of boneless fish with an open book in his lap, and back to Elizabeth. "Am I interrupting something?"

Elizabeth gives him one of her most charming smiles. "No, not at all."

"Elizabeta's teaching me about Roman Catholicism," John tells him, lifting his head off one of the armrests and twisting around to better face him.

He raises an eyebrow at Elizabeth, who's smile remains unabashed. "Is she now?"

"She thought it might be a good idea for me to learn about various Descendant religious movements, y'know, considering I am one now. Plus," he adds, pushing himself fully upright - head against the back of the chair, feet on the floor, - "I was bored."

"Bored? How?" He's fairly certain that John and Carson have been devoting several hours a week to what the former has taken to calling 'Introduction to Alteran Anatomy 101' on the theory that knowing about how a humanoid body is supposed to work will allow him to overcome his Tactile Dysfunction. Between that, the nine or so hours he spends in daily meditation towards this end, and his normal workload, Rodney's not certain it's physically possible for the Colonel to be bored. Even without a physical body.

John just shrugs. "You'd be amazed the kind of free time you have when you don't need to sleep. Or eat. And there's only so much time you can devote to contemplating your hypothalamus before the urge to inflict bodily harm on something becomes overwhelming." He snaps his book shut. Now that Rodney can see the cover, he see's it's a copy of the Biblia Vulgata. He has absolutely no idea where John might have gotten ahold of it and, strangely, that's the most bizarre part of the whole thing.. "If you're curious, it's eighty-six hours and twelve minutes."

"I see..."

"And, before you say it, no, I can't just move on to something else. The brain is all I have left and it's just-"

Rodney raises the hand not holding the tablet. "I wasn't going to say anything," he tells him honestly.

Running a hand through his hair, "Yeah," John sighs. "Yeah, sorry. I'm not really cut out for this whole Ascended shtick, y'know."

"It's alright." They'll work through it. Somehow.

"What'd you want to show us anyway?"

"What? Oh, yes. I found something in Janus' notes about a research base he once worked on. He wasn't very clear on what research was being done and neither was the Ancient Database, but the entry did say that whatever they were working on was completed before they abandoned the outpost, probably because of the war. And," Rodney grins as he turns the tablet around to face them both, "it included a Gate address."

The smile Elizabeth gives him this time is smaller, but truer and, somehow, brighter. Clapping her hands together, "That's great Rodney. It's sounds promising.

We can probably rearrange the team schedule for to check it out-"

"No!"

"Colonel?"

"That address is for Asuras."

This, quite naturally, means nothing to him. He looks to Elizabeth on the off chance John's told her something about his people's past that he doesn't know, but it's no dice there either.

John shakes his head, his eyes glowing with a bright white light that casts no shadows. "Remember what I was saying about how my people gave a new meaning to nuclear holocaust when we destroyed the planet we built our Replicators on?"

Rodney nods. John had only ever mentioned the Pegasus version of Replicators once, when they were on their way to bring Aurora back home, but that kind of thing tends to stick with a person.

"Well that," he points at the tablet, "is the address. We called it Asuras."

"I'm sorry, but did you just say 'Replicators'?" Elizabeth asks, slightly shrill.

"I- We tried a lot of things to stop the Wraith. The Asurans - that's what we called them - were the end result of a micro-weapon that Father worked on when he was only a discipulus. They're more like the human-form Replicators SG-1 encountered on Hala than the originals. But, look, like I told Rodney, we decimated their planet. Nothing could have survived the damage we inflicted upon it. Not even a nanite."

Elizabeth's lips purse. "Are you absolutely certain?"

He bites his lower lip. "If any had survived... They weren't the mindless replicating servola Avalon's Replicators were. The Asurans, the aggression we created in them terrified even Father. He'd have nightmares sometimes - and this a man who built doomsday machines on a fairly regular basis." John shudders.

"Needless say, if they'd survived, there'd not be much left alive in Pegasus today. Especially not the Wraith."

"Well, that's terrifying," Rodney says, sinking onto the arm of John's chair.

His amator wraps an arm around his waist, more tightly than is strictly necessary for added stability. "My people took care of them long ago."

"Be that as it may," Elizabeth says, thin-lipped and fiery-eyed, "we should still try dialling the address, just to see for ourselves."

"Go right ahead. I'll be surprised if we can even get a lock."

* * *

They get a lock.

* * *

They pick up a radio signal less than two minutes later, while the techs are still preparing the MALP.

"I am speaking to whoever seeks to contact this world," says the voice that plays from the speakers. It's silted and somewhat formal - not in the way that speaks of machine-aided translation on both sides, which is to say, artificially so, - but in a way that suggests a truly straight-laced character is on the opposite end of the transmission. "If you can understand this message and come in friendship, please speak. If not, or if you mean us harm, proceed no further. This is the only warning you will receive."

Rodney snorts. "Friendly bunch, aren't they?"

"Whatever you do, don't let them know you're not Alteran. I really don't want to know what they'll do if they find out." John pushes away from the console he's been leaning against with a great sigh. Then he closes his eyes and, when he opens them again, everything about him has changed - nothing physically. He's still outfitted in the same crazy mix of Ancient and Expedition uniform. He still seems to bend all the light towards him but remain in shadows. And yet-

-and yet his whole bearing has changed. Everything about him is straighter. Harder. Colder. More like the Ancients Rodney had seen hooked into Aurora's neural network and less like the man who'd tumbled out of bed with him this morning.

This John raises a hand stiffly to his radio and taps it once. "This is Iohannes Ianideus Licinus Pastor, Praetor of Atlantis. I demand dialogue with the one that speaks for your kind."

There is a startled silence on both ends of the wormhole.

"Colonel," Elizabeth hisses on theirs, "you could at least try for a little diplomacy."

The look John gives her is almost the same one he gets when she talks about trying to negotiate with the Wraith or maybe reduce the amount of C4 they use on missions. Almost. Nevertheless, he relents, though his put upon look is a little too disgusted to be the their John. "Look, I don't mean you guys any harm," he says, nearly sounding like himself. "All I want to do right now is talk to you."

"Atlantis Fell," the voice on the other side of the wormhole says brusquely. "She was lost to the sea ten thousand years ago, struck down by the Wraith."

"Atlantis still stands."

"And what of Elorus and Tiranus? Do they still stand as well?"

"No," John admits, real sadness creeping into his voice, though his tone remains somewhat distant and formal - and wrong.

"Then Atlantis and Asuras are all that remain."

Something twitches in John's jaw. "You could say that."

There's another pause. When the voice returns, Rodney would almost call it plaintive. "Why have you not tried to contact us before now, Pastor?"

"I didn't know Asuras still stood."

"Yes." There's definitely something sorrowful in the man's voice now. "The others held us responsible for the deaths of Elernus Ival Asuras Rector and Ishachus Ival Magister, amongst many others. They sought to destroy our world in retribution."

The muscle in John's jaw twitches again. "But you did not?"

"Of course not. We cannot harm our creators. Their deaths were an unfortunate accident." A pause. "Our Rector, Oberoth, would like to speak with you. Would thirty standard hours from now be enough time for you to make the appropriate preparations?"

John glances at Elizabeth. Apart from the stiffness to his back and the tightness in his jaw, he looks almost normal again.

She nods.

"That works for us-" he hesitates. "What's your name, anyway?"

"I am called Niam," the voice tells them, clearly surprised. Then, hesitantly, "If I might ask, your gens, it is Nebrian, is it not?"

John blinks-

-and whatever is left of the mask he he'd been wearing just crumbles away, and he is John again. Their John. His John.

"Yes," John admits, for whatever it's worth.

"Then you are the son of Ianus Ishachidus Ianitos Ingeniarius."

"He was Rector at his death."

"I see," Niam says delicately, remorsefully. "I know we cannot hope to redress the injuries my kind have caused you, but know that the deaths of Elernus and Ishachus Ival were truly accidents. All of us mourned their deaths."

"I- Thanks, Niam."

"Until tomorrow."

Then the wormhole disconnects, seemingly of its own accord, and chaos ensues.

* * *

They wind up back in Elizabeth's office.

"Why do I get the feeling that there's something you're not telling us, Colonel?" she fumes, practically throwing herself into her chair.

Rodney, to his surprise, just finds himself rollings eyes as he moves the bible out of the seat John had vacated earlier. "This is John we're talking about," he reminds her, slumping into his own chair. "He never tells us everything. I don't know why you still bother to get mad about it."

John gives him a hurt look from the - closed - doorway he's leaning against. "I tell you the important stuff."

"Yes, well your definition of important and ours tend to differ somewhat."

"Yes," Elizabeth agrees. "For starters, how did Niam know who you are, or, at least, who your father was?"

"My paternal grandmother was a Nebrian refugee," John says like it explains everything. Which, to him, it probably does.

"I'm going to need a little bit more than that, Colonel."

It's John's turn to roll his eyes. "My gens is Ianideus - literally, 'the son Ianus.' Not a lot of folks outside Nebrius named their children that way. Not a lot of folks called 'Ianus' either."

Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose. "And these people they supposedly killed?"

"The main researchers on the project: brothers, Elernus Ival Asuras Rector and Ishachus Ival Magister. They, along with twenty-six others, died during a massive explosion in 80 AL. It was believed that the Asurans were behind it."

Rodney frowns. "I thought you said the Asurans were programmed not to harm you guys. Asimov's Three Laws, or something."

"Not directly, no."

"But indirectly's just fine?"

"Apparently," John shrugs. "Also, in the interest of full disclosure, now might be a good time to mention Ishachus Ival was my paternal grandfather."

"And you didn't think it was relevant to mention this before?" Elizabeth asks, just this side of snapping.

"Look, by the time my people reached Pegasus, there were barely ten thousand of us left. By the Exodus, that number was barely a hundred, and I'm related to each and every one of them in dozens of ways: So, yes, my grandfather and his brother created the Asurans. I'm also sixth cousins with Ganos and Moros Lal. And I'm sure if we ever stumble across anything else in this galaxy my people built, I'll be related to whoever's involved there too.

"But it doesn't mean anything. My grandfather died twenty-five years before I was born. Ganos barely spoke to me, and I'm fairly certain Moros never acknowledged my existence at all until my first court marshal.

"So can you just accept this so we can all move on? 'Cause we've got less than thirty hours until we're due on Asuras, and I'm going to need that time to train whoever we decide to send with me to act Alteran, or this whole thing is going to go in a puff of smoke faster than you can say 'genocide'."


	8. Daemones, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the opposite problem with this one - it got too long before I reached where I wanted to stop. But here is as good a place as any. Also, I realize some of you found the family tree I have posted kinda confusing, so I'm working to make a new user friendly one before I ship. Recent events have severely limited my free time as of late (I'll be lucky to finish "McKay and Mrs. Miller" before I leave on 12 Feb), but I'll do my utmost best. I also encourage you to visit the timeline and the mixes, as I do feel they add something to the story.  
> Any other questions, comments, suggestions, and etc to make this series the best that it can be are always welcome.

He steps out of the bedroom muttering, "God, I look like an idiot."

John pushes himself up onto his elbows, smile splitting his face as he looks Rodney over from head to toe and back again. "Yeah," he admits, "you kinda do."

"Says the man lying on the floor," Rodney snorts. "Why are you on the floor anyway?"

"Floors are as much a part of Atlantis as ceilings."

"Okay," he says at length, for lack of any better response. "But are the dead peoples' clothes really necessary?"

John rolls his eyes before pillowing his head in his arms again, nose inches from the hideous as hell (but surprisingly soft) rug the folks on Saritos gave them a few months back. "It's not like there's any place to get new Alteran clothing these days. We're lucky that Father's stuff fits you."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I know," he says quietly.

Rodney crosses the room and, after a moment, sits cross-legged on the rug in front of him. It's a little uncomfortable, as Ancient clothes turn out to be more closely tailored than the stuff one gets off the rack on Earth, but there's not much he can do about that now. "You're really worried about this, aren't you?"

"What d'you think? The last thing we need right now is more bad guys, but here they are, popping out of the woodwork like mice in a barn fire."

"You never know. That Niam guy seemed genuinely worked up about what happened to your grandfather. And is has been ten thousand years since anyone's heard a peep out of them. Maybe they really have changed."

"You don't really believe that."

"I don't know what I believe - I've not met them yet.

"So, yeah, maybe we're making a huge mistake by going to Asuras. Maybe they'll try to kill us or torture us for information the moment we get there. But maybe they really didn't kill all those people, and maybe they're not the evil creatures you were told stories about anymore, if they ever were. The one thing I do know, though, is that you'll hate yourself forever if we attack now and find out later that they weren't bad guys. So what do you say we do this, try to stay alive, and deal with the fall out later?"

John raises himself up on a single elbow and gives him a warm smile. "When did you get so smart?"

He huffs. "I've always been this smart. You just weren't paying close enough attention. The question you should be asking is: when did our roles get reversed?"

"Roles?"

"It used to be you reassuring me about the 'this is probably a bad idea' missions we went go on," Rodney points out, "and now it's the other way around."

John's mouth quirks upward on one side. "C'mere," he mutters, tugging on the front of Rodney's jacket when he's close enough and pulling him down further. He kisses him once, just a soft brush of lips, before pulling back slightly and bringing his hand up to cup Rodney's face. "I can't die," John whispers, and Rodney can feel the breath on his cheek, the brush of a nose against his. "No matter what happens, I'm going to continue to exist until the others release me from this punishment. Before I Ascended, I knew that, if something happened to me, you'd either manage to survive or be not that far behind. But now," he breathes, voice wavering, "no matter what I do, I'm going to lose you someday. So forgive me if I want to make sure that day is as far off as possible."

"John..."

"You have no idea how terrifying it is to want to do anything for someone and actually be able to do it."

Rodney's breath hitches, the tip of his nose brushing against John's cheek - and, God, he feels real. He doesn't feel like a lightning storm - an atomic bomb, an earthquake - wrapped up in one human-shaped package. He doesn't feel like a being people could rightfully call a god. He just feels like John, his (more or less) live-in boyfriend, right down to the stubble on his cheek.

But that stubble never grows and, if John wanted to, he could could wipe an area the size of Maine off the map just by thinking about it. And Rodney is slowly coming to the realisation that John would do just that if he ever felt it necessary, regardless of the consequences.

"Hey, I save you, you save me, remember?" he tells him. "You didn't need your Ascended powers to do that before, and you certainly don't need them now."

John chuckles. "I make no guarantees."

"Well you should," tells him, pulling back. "You told me what the others threatened to do if you went Dark Side. Don't put all those deaths on my hands."

John kisses him, hard, and repeats, "I make no guarantees," before pulling away. In seconds, he's on his feet and shaking out the wrinkles in his clothing. "We should see how Elizabeta is getting on."

"John-"

"Fine. I promise to kill the Asurans the old-fashioned way if it comes down to it."

Rodney grins as he climbs to his own feet. "That's all I ask. God," he groans, fixing his own clothes. There are no less than three layers of cream-coloured clothing involved in the costume, the last of which inclues a jacket with a collar so high the back brushes his hairline. "I can't believe you used to dress like this all the time."

The Ancient snorts and takes over, smoothing out the shoulders of the jacket and checking the laces of the leather sewn into the cuffs. "These are civilian clothes."

"There are lifts in these boots John."

He 'hmmms'. "Father may have been a bit chichi."

"'A bit?'" Rodney snorts. "You know, the more I learn about your dad, the happier I get that I never have to worry about meeting him."

John's bark of laughter seems to surprise even himself. "I think," he says with false solemnity, "the entire universe is grateful for that."

* * *

Elizabeth meets them in the Gate Room, wearing what probably passes for the Ancient equivalent of a business suit - that is to say, something highly-tailored and blindingly white, with an odd square collar and lacings down the front, like some sort of Bavarian bodice or something. Unlike Rodney, who feels nothing but incredibly awkward in this Ancient getup, she looks every ounce of the accomplished and acclaimed diplomat her portfolio boasts. It's sometimes hard to remember, but she'd been negotiating treaties with warlords and dictators on Earth long before she'd been questioning on their every action from her glass office on high.

Okay, maybe that's a little harsh, but this mission will only be the second trip she's made off-world since they arrived on Lantea - third, if one included the one back to Earth they'd made at the end of the first year. And while she sits in her ivory tower, passing judgement on them for their choices after the fact, she doesn't get that, sometimes, they have to act on what information they have at the moment - that they don't have time when they're being shot at to sit down and discuss every option to death's doorstep and beyond.

Hell, Rodney knows it's hypocritical - he's not gotten it either until he'd started going off-world on a regular basis, - but he can't help but think it. Despite her faults, few as they are, Elizabeth an excellent head of this Expedition. There may be others who could do the job better, but Rodney wouldn't have any of them. None of them have earned his respect, let alone his friendship.

He still wishes she'd learn already.

She smiles at him. "Why Rodney, don't you look nice."

"I look like an idiot."

"No-"

"Actually," John interrupts, "he kinda does. But then again rectores are kinda supposed to look like pompous, pretentious asses. No offense, buddy."

Rodney snorts. He feels like a pompous, pretentious ass.

"Do you think these clothes will actually fool the Asurans?" Elizabeth asks.

"Not on their own. Just remember what I told you both last night and let me do most the talking. Hopefully, that will be enough."

"You don't sound very sure."

"Like I said," he shrugs, "we thought we'd taken care of them long before I was ever born. The only reason I know anything about them at all is because Father worked on the project, but he was only a discipulus then and it's not like I ever paid much attention to any of the science stuff he went on about."

Elizabeth looks at him for translation. Because, yes, after all these years, he's still the only one who knows what John's saying some of the time. Sometimes, he thinks John even does it intentionally, just so he doesn't feel left out or something absurd like that. "He means his dad was only an undergrad. Maybe a young grad student. It's not exactly a one-to-one ratio, but basically Janus was still at the short end of the academic hierarchy at the time." Which, oddly enough reminds Rodney of something. Turning back to John, he asks, "Wasn't your great-uncle's nickname 'Asuras'?"

"One was named after the other," he says distractedly, waving Ronon and Teyla over.

Both are dressed normally, the unspoken agreement being that there is no way either could hope to pass for an Ancient. Part of it is the simple fact that, while human life the universe over had apparently evolved from the same Petri dish of genetic material that the Ancients had seeded wherever they went, the people of Athos and Sateda hadn't gotten the same boost of fresh DNA John's father had given ancient Earth. They're too many generations removed from the source to really pass for a pair of their Ancestors. The other part - the greater one - is that neither of them have it in them to be the self-important, pretentious sons of bitches John makes his people out to be, not by a long shot. Whereas Rodney - and maybe Elizabeth, if she tries - does.

Rodney can't help but be unbearably annoyed. But, before he can complain about the outfit again, it's zero hour, and Chuck's dialling the Gate.

Showtime.

* * *

Three Asurans - a blonde man and two dark-haired women dressed as pretentiously as Rodney feels - are waiting for them when they step out of the Gate.

The man steps forward and bows slightly. "I am Niam," he says, features schooled but voice just this side of giddy. "These are Quirin and Rhoda. We most graciously welcome you to Asuras."

"Nice to meet you guys," he says in a genuinely friendly voice, and either he's genuinely decided to reserve judgement until he gets to know them better or John's a much better actor than they give him credit for. "I'm Iohannes Ianideus Licinus Pastor, the guy you were talking to the other day."

The younger of the two women smiles at this. "Yes. We recognised your voice, Pastor." Her own is oddly low-pitched for a woman's, but not unpleasantly so - more like a dramatic contralto in an opera house than his chain-smoking grand-mère, who had a tendency to sound like she gargled sandpaper in the years before her death.

"You bear remarkable resemblance to your grandfather, Ishachus Magister, as well," says the older. If the first was a dramatic contralto, she is a lyric soprano, with a youthful sweetness to her voice not usually found in a woman of her presumable age.

Rodney wonders if the Asurans sing as Atlantis does and, if so, that might change anything in John's mind.  
Judging by the tightness in John's jaw, he rather doubts it - at least, for as long as they keep bringing up the relatives they're believed to have murdered. "So I've been told."

"Forgive Quirin," Niam says, taking another step further. "We hold our creators in such esteem that we have given little thought to the... less practical side-effects of their deaths."

"Yeah. Well, maybe you should've. My father and his cousin weren't the only ones you orphaned that day."

Elizabeth makes a less than discrete cough.

"Oh, yeah. Introductions. This is Elizabeta Molia Praefecta."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Praefecta," Niam tells her, inclining his head respectfully.

"And I you."

"And this," John continues quickly before she can say more. "is Moreducus Ignius Custodia, our rector."

Niam and the others bow, even more deeply than he had for John. "Rector, it is truly an honour."

"Yes, it probably is," Rodney tells them, channelling his inner snark - though even he admits he doesn't have to dig that deep looking for the proper, Ancient-y response.

John grins at him. "And Teyla Emmagen and Ronon Dex."

"Servants?"

The muscle in John's jaw twitches. Twice. "Friends."

The Asurans' eyes widen, Niam's almost comically so. "Much must have changed for Lanteans to speak of Descendants with friendship."

"You could say that."

"Oberoth will not like that."

"Why not?" Elizabeth asks, first ignoring and then brushing aside the elbow Rodney had dug into her side at the first sign she was going to speak. He'll be the first to admit that he's done and said some not-so-smart things off-world before, but when John wants them to shut the hell up to avoid getting killed by extraordinarily violent machines, well, Rodney's inclined to do as the Ancient asks;

Replicators freak him out on a level he's not even prepared to think about. They're little better than viruses, mindlessly eating their way across the universe with no other thought than continued replication through whatever means necessary. And while yes, the Asurans seem to be of a decidedly different flavour - they've obviously a high level of intelligence, if the way their city mimics Atlantis is anything to go by, - on some level, Rodney knows they're the same mindless machines the Milky Way Replicators were. They cannot alter their code. They cannot change. They were programmed to be ruthless weapons in the war against the Wraith, and weapons they remain.

Or maybe they can. These three at least seem peaceable enough. No one's tried to kill them yet, which is always a plus in Rodney's book, especially considering their reputation.

But the point he's trying to make is they don't know yet. And Elizabeth is going to get herself and all the rest of them killed if she keeps this up. Or, even worse, she'll do something that causes John to use his Ascended powers, and then a whole bunch of other people will die. Either way, people die if they screw this up.

Which is a good incentive for not screwing things up.

"He still blames you for the near-destruction of our race. Rightly so, perhaps, but he does not allow himself to see the whole picture. Mistakes were made on both sides. We cannot hope to grow as a race if we continue to cling to the past, particularly one so distorted as to make us appear blameless in all things."

Niam cocks his head to one side. "We should go now. It is a long walk to the Council Chambers and it will be held against all of us if we are not punctual."

"You hold no animosity towards the Ancestors for what they did to you," Teyla observes as Niam leads them through the eerily familiar halls of Asuras.

Rodney briefly considers elbowing her as well, but knows he'd probably not survive it.

"Oh no," Niam tells her. "They most certainly perceived the death of their researchers as the first act of a war they had no desire to fight. We ourselves were created as but sophisticated weapons in the war they were already losing against the Wraith. Between the losses they had already suffered and the aggression they imbued in us, they had no hope of winning a protracted war against us. I am sure they saw a swift, uncompromising attack ending in what appeared to be our utter destruction to be their only hope for survival. I am sure we would have done the same, had our situations been reversed. After all, we were created in their image, just as you were."

"But not everyone agrees with you," Elizabeth says.

"Forgiveness is not a part of our programming. Revenge is."

"And yet we have yours."

Niam cocks his head to the side again. "Yes," he muses, sounding rather surprised. "I suppose that is true."

John, notably, says nothing. He just walks alongside him, silent and brooding, and with that same faraway look he gets in his eyes when he's talking silently to 'Lantis.

* * *

Oberoth is a greying, heavy-set man who immediately takes offence to all of them.

"So," he says, eying John critically from his seat at the head of the Council Table. "You are the Ival heir."

"Well," John drawls, "I usually go by 'Iohannes,' but if that's what floats your boat, I'll answer to it."

"I must say it came as a surprise to hear that the grandson of one of our creators was, of all things, a solider. How disappointed your father must have been with you. After all, how many generations of Ivals have been rectores? Twenty-five? Thirty?"

"Does it matter?"

"That the Ival heir chose not to shoulder the great legacy his ancestors laid out for him? I'd say it matters very much, Iohannes Pastor. It tells me that you are weak, lazy, cowardly - an unworthy ally for the Asuran people."

To Rodney's everlasting surprise, John laughs. "What makes you think we'd want to ally with you? You're just malfunctioning weapons. We only came here today to see just how far the reservation you've gone before deciding what action to take."

Elizabeth steps forward. "What the Praetor means to say is, the Wraith have recently reawakened from their hibernation and are posing a greater threat to this galaxy than they have for many millennia. And while we are strong, the fight ahead of us will be easier with your assistance."

Oberoth turns his haughty gaze on her. "Eradication of the Wraith is among our goals."

"Nice job you've done with that so far," John snorts.

"No better than you."

John's hands curl into fists at his sides, but he voices no reply. But neither does he lash out with any of his Ascended powers, which could so easily level this city and everything within it, so Rodney counts it as a win.

Elizabeth continues with her line of questioning. "But you have a plan?"

"We do."

Rodney can't help himself. Clapping his hands together, "Great. Let's hear it," he half asks, half demands.

The glower Oberoth sends his way is absolutely withering. Rodney can feel himself shrinking back despite himself. "I doubt that you would be able to grasp it's complexity and scope."

He musters up the most contemptuous glare he has at his disposal, honed first by years in academia and later by decades of research for the United States Air Force. "Lucky for you, I'm very good with complexity."

"All you need to know is that one day soon the Wraith will exist no more."

"What are you waiting on, an engraved invitation? Every single Wraith in the galaxy is awake. If you don't step up and do something, pretty soon there's not going to be anybody left to save, and what good will all your plans be then? So stand up and take some initiative. You're weapons," Rodney rages, fairly certain he's lost his mind talking to a Replicator like this. "Act like it."

Oberoth arches an eyebrow. "We shall commence our plan at a time of our choosing, not before."

"You're lying."

Every eye in the room, human and Asuran, turns to look at John with varying degrees of scepticism and frustration.

"Pardon me?"

"You're lying," John says more clearly as he takes a few steps forward to stand in the middle of the Council Chambers. But his voice, for all it's sharpness, is hardly raised at all. "There is no plan to defeat the Wraith. Why would you want to do that when they're merrily causing so much misery to the Descendants of this galaxy? After all, they're the ones we showered with love and attention. They're the ones we guided down the right paths towards becoming like ourselves while we abandoned you at the first sign of trouble. You thought we were dead, and so you watched the Wraith set about destroying our favourite creations and called it revenge."

A few of the Council members, including Niam, appear as confused by this information. The rest appear furious beyond words. "How do you know this?" one of them - a grey-haired woman - demands.

Oberoth waves the question aside. "He is pastor. He must be stronger than we had anticipated to be able to slip through the city's defences. But no matter. A door once opened works both ways and his knowledge of the truth changes nothing."

"You killed thirty-eight innocent people, Oberoth. That changes everything."

"They would have killed us," the grey-haired woman insists. "They were going to destroy us. We had to destroy them first."

"Self-defence doesn't justify cold-blooded murder."

"You would condemn an entire planet for a handful of deaths?"

John doesn't say anything, but it's obvious what his answer would be.

"And what then of yourself? How many deaths can be held to your name? How many did you leave behind at the Palamede? How many did you lead to their deaths at Tirianus? Hundreds? Thousands? What punishment does a murderer of your caliber deserve?"

The scent of ozone fills the room as John's fists clench at his sides, so tightly that Rodney can make out his white knuckles from across the room. "That was battle."

"So was this," Oberoth roars, rising to his feet almost faster than the human eye can follow. "But wait," he adds more evenly, "there are far more interesting things inside your mind. Like the fact that your so called rector and praefecta aren't Alteran at all." He turns towards the guards that line the room. "Take them away."

The guards start towards them. Ronon and Teyla go for their guns, but there are no less than twenty Asurans in the Council Chambers alone. If they're anything like the Milky Way Replicators, it will take a lot more ammunition than they have to make it out of this room, let alone back to the Gate.

"You touch them," John growls, "and it won't just be your planet I destroy."

"Do you really think you can challenge us?" Oberoth scoffs. "One lone Alteran against the entire might of Asuras?"

"I think I'm the only one who can challenge you. Now tell your men to fall back or deactivate and disassemble immediately."

"Make sure to lock the Pastor up separately until we can take care of him."

One of the guards places a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder.

"I said," John's voice thunders, his fingers unfurling to reveal glowing white palms. "Deactivate." He flings his hands in opposite directions, sending two separate beams of light at the Asurans sitting at each end off the curved Council table. "And." The light envelops its targets whole once it hits them. And, when it dissipates, "Disassemble," all that is left of victims is a pile of nanites on the floor.

"Get them out of here!"

And then there is a flurry of movement.

Rodney tries to get his gun, but it's knocked out of his hand before he can get off a shot. Teyla does a little better, but even her P90 is next to useless against the onslaught of hands seeking to drag them away and she's taken as soon as she has to reload. Ronon manages to bring down three before two more manage to get the drop on him, grabbing his arms from behind before a third knocks him unconscious withe butt of his gun. Elizabeth he loses sight of entirely in mêlée, and John...

The last he sees of John is him firing more beams of light at the Asurans. But whatever compunction they have against harming their creators doesn't appear to extend to non-fatal injuries, for soon he is lost beneath a swarm of attackers, and the rest of their team is being dragged away.


	9. Daemones, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of the "Daemones" arc.   
> You've no idea how much this one tried to kill me as I wrote it. This is like version 13,584,789 of this chappie alone. Thanks to popkin16 for all her help and general listen-to-me-whine-ness, though I doubt she expected this outcome. **runs and hides**

They've no sooner turned the corner before a great clap of thunder crashes all around them, shaking the entire tower.

Another quickly follows, impossibly louder, and then a third, this time accompanied by a great fusillade of lightning breaking and bursting down the halls, burning and blistering everything it touches.

It's too bright to watch. Rodney quickly buries his eyes in the crook of his elbow, pressing his hands to his ears in attempt to protect them from the deafening barrage. He doesn't know why his arms are suddenly free, only that he must do something against the onslaught. He thinks he might be on his knees, but that's immaterial with the way the floor is quaking - but that might just be him. The temperature in the hallway surges ten, fifteen degrees. The air is filled with the acrid smell of burned hair and melting plastic and if it keeps up for much longer, it's going to be impossible to breathe.

And then just as quickly as it started, it stops, the silence even more deafening than the thunder.

Cautiously, Rodney uncovers his ears. When that doesn't prove to be a heinous mistake, opens his eyes too.

He's kneeling in the middle of a nuclear winter: The walls are utterly charred. What remains of the furniture rests in piles of smouldering wreckage every few yards. The windows are all smashed, covering the floor in shards of multi-coloured glass mostly lost beneath the inch or two of ash that covers everything, even himself.

Elizabeth groans from somewhere to his right - at least, he thinks it's Elizabeth. His ears are still ringing and the sound of her agony is all but primal, nothing at all like the prim and polished diplomat of minutes before.

Slowly, carefully, he crawls towards her, hissing when a shard of glass he'd somehow missed buries itself in his palm. Rodney pulls it out as carefully as he can and tugs the sleeves of his stupid Ancient jacket down as far as they'll go, hoping the leather sewn into the cuffs will give him some protection. They do, but no where near enough, and so his fingers sport a dozen tiny cuts by the time he finally reaches her.

"Elizabeth," he coughs.

He gets no response.

"Elizabeth?" he tries again, shaking her shoulder.

This gets him an insensate moan, even more pained than the first.

Carefully, he starts brushing the ash and hair off her face. His comes away with blood, several inches of blackened hair, and pieces of charred flesh. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?" he asks, a frantic note in his voice now. He tears open his jacket and rips several inches off the hem of the shirt underneath, using the relatively cleaner cloth to dab at her wounds, but getting rid of the blood and ash only makes it look that much worse. As loudly as he dares, "Is anybody there?"

"Rodney?"

"Teyla? Is that you?"

"Yes," she chokes out around terrible, hacking coughs that make his own lungs ache with sympathy. "What was that?"

"No idea. A bomb maybe? All I know is Elizabeth is in a bad way over here. She's got some really bad burns and I think she must've hit her head when she fell, 'cause she's not waking up."

"And Ronon?"

Rodney takes a second glance through the haze of smoke. "I don't see him. Or any of the Asurans."

"Nor do I. Ron-" she pauses for another body-wracking cough. "Ronon? Are you there?"

"I'm here," he grunts in obvious pain. "What'd I miss?"

"We are not certain, but Elizabeth is hurt and, last I saw, the Replicators have John."

"We've gotta get out of here."

"No go," Rodney tells him worriedly. "Elizabeth can't walk. Hell, she won't even wake up." She needs medical attention soon or there's no telling what state she'll be in when sh wakes up.

If she wakes up.

"We're dead if we stay here."

There's no denying that, but, "This place is crawling with Asurans."

"It's built just like Atlantis," Ronon says, his voice stronger, clearer, closer. "If you were going to hide there, where would you go?"

"Well that's completely different. Atlantis is mostly abandoned and-" He snaps his fingers as an idea hits him. "The underwater jumper bay. There should be no reason for the Asurans to be down there unless they've taken up an interest in oceanography. Which is doubtful."

He hears the distinct hum of Ronon's energy weapon being readied. At least they have one gun between them. "How far is it?"

"About fifty stories and half-a-mile from where we are now - if this place really is designed just like Atlantis."

"Good enough for me."

"And me as well," Teyla agrees, suddenly appearing out of the smoke. She's missing about half-a-foot of hair and has a nasty welt on one side of her face, but other than that she seems reasonably unharmed, considering the circumstances. "Ronon, if you will carry Elizabeth, I'll take point."

"You have a weapon?"

"Only my boot knife. The guards took the rest when they captured me and I do not see them here now."

"Take my gun," he tells her, handing it over as he too appears at Elizabeth's side, bleeding from half-a-dozen different cuts on each arm. "What about you, McKay?"

"I've got a life signs detector, but I've got no idea if the Asurans will even show up on it."

"Keep an eye on it just in case." He lifts Elizabeth into his arms, bridal style, and asks, "Which way?"

Rodney fumbles as he pulls the LSD out of his jacket, fingers slippery with blood and sweat. "What about John?"

"We're no good to him until we get Elizabeth someplace safe."

"But-" they can't just leave him. John would never leave any of them, not if there was a snowball's chance in hell they were still alive, and maybe not even then.

"He is an Ascended being. He will be able to take care of himself until we are in a position to help him. Now, which way to the underwater jumper bay?"

"But-"

"Rodney, we will come back for him," Teyla promises, placing a hand on his shoulder before gesturing down the hallway with Ronon's gun. "Now which way?"

Rodney runs a hand across his face. "Alright. You're right." He points down the far end of the hall, away from the Council Room and the source of all this destruction. "There should be a secondary staircase not far from here that will take us most of the way. Come on."

* * *

Rodney's never been more glad for John's habit of never taking the same route twice as he now. Between the knowledge of various shortcuts and secondary hallways he's gleaned from John's walkabouts and the LSD, they're able to avoid most of the Asurans they'd otherwise have run across on their way to the underwater jumper bay.

But one misstep is all they need, which is how they wind up trapped inside one of the jumpers as water floods the bay. The water doesn't seem to be any more of a deterrent to the Asurans' progress than the doors they'd been able to short circuit shut behind them, but the jumper's cloak seems to be giving them pause. (The cloak frequencies probably disrupt the bonds between nanites somehow - which, while worth noting for the Anti-Replicator Guns he's most definitely going to start working on the second he gets back to Atlantis, doesn't really change the fact that they're stuck.

(Or that the Replicators are bound to adapt to this impediment long before the cloak gives out.)

"Can you fly this thing?"

"Theoretically? Yes. When somebody's taking pot shots at us? Not so much."

"Are we not cloaked?" Teyla asks, riffling through the contents of the jumper, looking for something - anything - that they can use.

"Atlantis can detect a cloaked jumper. I'm betting these B-list wannabes can too."

"We must do something," Teyla declares, dropping the box she'd been digging through. "There is nothing here which we can use to help Elizabeth. We have to get back to Atlantis or, barring that, the nearest friendly planet."

"No hyperdrive," he reminds her.

"Then our only hope for escape is through the Stargate."

"Pretty much."

"Then we must find a way to do so, and quickly. Elizabeth has not yet woken and her pulse is getting slower. I fear that if we do not get her medical attention soon, we will lose her."

Rodney feels the blood rush from his face. Yes, as soon as he'd seen the extent of her injuries, he'd feared possibility, but to have someone else say it aloud brings it from justified fear to cold, heard reality. It's bad enough that John is gone again, captured by the Asurans this time, but if Elizabeth does die...

No. She can't die. She just can't. She's more than their leader, she's...

She's the one person who believed in him after that mess with Teal'c and Colonel Simmons a few years ago. She pulled strings and got him recalled from Russia without ever having met him. She had him instated as the CSO of the Expedition within an hour of their first initial interview. She changed his life, bringing him to the Pegasus galaxy. She gave him Atlantis. She gave him John.

Elizabeth can't die. She may be hopelessly, annoyingly, ludicrously naive; she may be physically incapable of seeing the bad in anyone or anything; she may be stubborn at the best of times and sanctimonious at the worst, but without all of those qualities, they never would have made it this far. Not by half.

"Yeah. Just let me..." Rodney mumbles, gesturing to the panel over Teyla's head. "The jumper's DHD should override the one in the Control Room, but we're going to need shields if we're going to try to fly this thing straight through the centre of the city to get there."

"Quickly, please."

"I know, I know, just... five minutes. I need five minutes if we're going to have a fighting chance of pulling this off."

"Pull what off?"

All three of them currently capable of it spin around to face the figure currently standing in the cockpit, looking as casually immaculate as he had when he'd stepped through th Gate.

"John," he breathes, unable to do or say more as relief floods through his veins. Elizabeth may still be in danger, but at least John's alright, so that's one less thing he has to worry about. It doesn't matter that John's Ascended now - that he's essentially invulnerable, - it's impossible not worry. Especially when the last he'd seen of his amator had been while the Replicators were doing their utmost best to test that invulnerability theory in the seconds before that bomb, or whatever it was, went off.

John beams at him before accepting Ronon's back-slapping hug.

"Sheppard, how'd you escape?"

"I'm an Ascended being-" he starts, smirking, before sputtering to a halt when his eyes fall on Elizabeth. "What happened?" he demands, brushing past Ronon and Teyla to kneel beside the bench where they've lain her.

She's almost as pale as what remains of her Ancient costume - what of it that isn't burned or bloodstained, that is. She's not showing any signs of stirring yet either, and is so far gone that even attempting to tend her injuries elicits little more than a faint, instinctive hiss of pain.

Teyla's right: Elizabeth is going to die and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Not even a man worshiped by half a galaxy as a god.

"A bomb went off as we were leaving the Council Chambers..." she begins slowly, as if she knows beforehand what weight her words will have.

John immediately blanches. "No," he says, hands already alight with his Ancient healing powers. "No, no, no."

"John...?"

"It wasn't a bomb. It was me."

Ronon looks at him skeptically. "You mean all that thunder and lightening...?"

"Was me, yes."

"How?"

"My control slipped. Just a little. But, I mean, I was kinda worried about what the Asurans would do to you guys. I mean, their programming kinda make the Wraith look cute and cuddly, so it it was an understandable worry, but I never meant for anything like this to happen."

Teyla kneels next to him and - gingerly - places an arm around his shoulders. "I know, John. You would never knowingly hurt any of us. But set that aside for the moment and think: is it possible for you to heal her?"

Already Elizabeth's burns have disappeared, leaving no trace of ever having been beyond the swaths of shiny, fresh and new pink skin on her face and peaking through the places where her clothes have burned away. But John bites his lower lip and shakes his head. "Something's still wrong. Her brain, I think. It's... swelling and I don't know how to reverse it or make it stop. We've got to get her back to Atlantis as soon as possible." He swallows audibly. "Carson will know what to do."

"McKay's working on it."

"What?" Rodney blinks, turning back towards the crystal panel he'd all but forgotten about in the aftermath of John's return. "Yes. Right. Give me another minute."

Ronon scowls at him. "You said it would only take five."

"Well forgive me for getting distracted!"

"Elizabeth doesn't have time for distractions!"

"Knock it off you two," John orders, climbing to his feet. "She's stable for now, so stop arguing and tell me how you wound up down here and what your plan is to get back to Atlantis." He pauses. "You guys do have a plan, right? 'Cause the only way out of here I'm seeing involves me really losing my cool and dipping into my reserve power, which basically gets twenty-seven planets the Death Star treatment, care of the knuckleheads upstairs. And as much as I like you guys, I promised I'd try to avoid that route if at all possible."

Ronon leans against the one of the bulkheads and crosses his arms. "We were going to fly through the Stargate."

"Asuras' porta?" he appears to consider this. "We'd need to convert the cloak into a shield-"

"McKay's working on it."

"-and a hell of a good pilot."

"We've got you."

"I am the best."

"So, do you think it can be done?"

"We're about to find out."

* * *

Turn's out, it can be done, if someone's crazy enough to fly a jumper through the Control Room window while the Gate's still dialling. Especially if their opponents are distracted by volleys of the drones John fires in their wake.

But there's nothing that can be done for Elizabeth. Not by that point. She'd been as good as dead the moment her head hit the floor and no act of god could ever have saved her.


	10. Cor Leonis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ust in case you weren't heartbroken enough after "Daemones," here's this. It made me sob pretty much all afternoon yesterday and some of today.  
> "Cor Leonis" means "Lionheart" in Latin. I know it's not exactly in keeping with the religious-themed titles of S3, but it IS the epithet of Richard I of England, who was the first knight-king by modern understanding. An interesting quote about him that you might find helpful to understanding the naming of this fic is by Steven Runciman, a historian, about Richard the Lionheart: "he was a bad son, a bad husband, and a bad king, but a gallant and splendid soldier."

"To think," Iohannes remarks to the empty office, "they say the definition of immortality is never dying." He picks up one of the figurines on the desk and, after a moment's unfruitful examination, places it in the box with the rest of Elizabeta's personal belongings. "What they should really say is that it's dying over and over again and being forced to carry on anyway. Again and again and again."

The lights dim sympathetically.

"It's punishment, isn't it?"

/Your Ascension?/

"No," he corrects, shaking his head and boxing up another figurine. "Well, yes. Obviously. But I mean the fact that I've managed to survive long enough to Ascend in the first place."

/What do you mean, pastor?/ the city asks curiously.

"It's not like I've lived the safest of lives, is it? I should've died at the Palamede with everyone else when the Wraith captured Tethys, but I didn't. How d'you explain that?"

/You are a valiant, courageous solider and the most capable of commanders,/ Atlantis asserts without hesitation, though a hint of confusion colours her words. /You escaped capture and rescued those you could by skill alone./

"Maybe," he shrugs. "But what about Tirianus? I should have drowned with her when she Fell."

/You were rescued and resuscitated. There is no miracle in that, only good fortune./

"Oh? Then how'd I manage to stay in stasis for so long without ageing, huh? Answer me that."

/We do not know for certain-/

Iohannes thrusts a triumphant finger into the air, thinking his point is made. "Exactly!"

/-but there is surely some explanation - some scientific explanation. Never before has a pastor spent so long in cathedra. It is possible that your nanoids effected the stasis process in a way that no one had thought to expect./

"But you don't know."

'Lantis sighs, air recycling units clattering loudly for a few moments and sending a burst of cold air into the room. /What is your point, pastor?/

"My point is," he says fiercely, slapping the palms of his hands onto Elizabeta's desk - the desk she'll never sit behind again, because she'll never be able to sit anywhere again, because she'll never be able to do anything ever again, because she's dead and gone forever and it's all his own thrice-damned fault. "That I should've died a dozen times over the last two years alone, and instead I somehow manage to survive while everyone around me - everyone I care about - dies. Because of me."

/Oh, pastor.../

"No. Don't you 'oh, pastor' me, carrisima. I know it's my fault. Ford, Cadman, Elizabeta - they're all dead 'cause of me."

/You know that's not true./

"Isn't it?" Iohannes asks sinking into the desk chair and burying his hands in his hair. "I shot Ford."

/The lictor was out of his mind with Wraith enzyme. You did what you had to do to protect us and the Terrans,/ the city reminds him with gentle patience.

"I killed Cadman."

/That was mercy./

"Some kind of mercy," he mutters, digging the heels of his palms into his temples.

/You used to believe in that kind of mercy./

"I know. And it was the right thing to do, it's just... I'm so tired of destroying everything I care about."

/You've not destroyed us, pastor. You've not destroyed Moreducus./

"Not yet." But he will, Iohannes knows that now. It will be terrible when he does, the absolute end of all things, but when it's all over and the smoke has cleared, he'll be forced to continue on. Again and again and again, until he's utterly annihilated all that he loves in the universe. That is his real punishment. Not his Ascension, but being forced to see the consequences of his good intentions carried a thousandfold through the generations and knowing he could have prevented it all, if only he'd been a proper Alteran and not interfered.

/We know you, pastor. You are a good man. You are selfless and righteous and kind. You gave ten thousand years of your life to protect us, and gave the Terrans a home when they were cut off from theirs. You have all but given your life in service to others - though not for lack of trying. You should not doubt yourself so./

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? But Elizabeta is," he ignores the embarrassing way his voice cracks, "dead 'cause of me. So what does that tell you about how 'good' and 'righteous' I am?"

/It was an accident./

"That doesn't change anything. I still killed a friend because I couldn't control myself."

/And you tried to save her./

"And failed."

/No one is perfect. We all have our failings. We all make mistakes./

"Only mine get people killed."

The water ballasts burble worriedly. /You did everything you could, pastor. You cannot ask more of yourself than that./

"None of this would ever have happened if the others hadn't Ascended me, y'know," he tells the city, angrily rubbing at his eyes. He has no time or use for tears. Unless the SGC decides to suspend him for his part in Elizabeta's death, Iohannes is in command of the Expedition until the IOA assigns someone to replace her - and the IOA has never been known for making quick decisions. He has to be strong for the Terrans and the threats they will certainly face now that the Asurans know Atlantis still stands. He can grieve after he's found someway to make her most pointless of deaths 'mean' something. "You said it yourself: I'm not perfect. Yet what have they done but given me all of the power of a god when I'm the farthest thing from god-like anyone can be."

/Pastor-/ she protests.

"I'm jealous and unforgiving," he interrupts before the urbs-navis can spin anymore lies, lifting his head out of his hands to stare intently at the coving opposite. "I'm petty and vindictive and emotionally distant. I'm a bitter old solider in a young man's body and I destroy everyone who gets in my way, whether I mean to or not. So don't try to tell me that I'm a good person, 'Lantis, or that I'm doing these things for all the right reasons. I know who I am.

"And y'know what?"

/What?/ the city asks carefully.

"I don't care. I am who I am. If they want to punish me for that, they can go right ahead. And if the others aren't going to leave the Descendants out of it, well, I'll just drag them into this further and interfere with their development until I can't interfere any more. They wanna make me a king? I'll be the best king this galaxy has ever seen. They wanna make me a god? I'll be the kind of god Elizabeta always wanted my people to be. I'll turn this Confederacy in to the most impressive empire the universe has ever seen, even if I have to kill every Wraith and Asuran in Pegasus myself. Those bastards are going to regret the moment they decided to Ascend me so badly that they'll be begging me for the chance to turn me mortal again."

Atlantis doesn't immediately answer. Even her song is oddly quiet, making Iohannes' words ring in the oppressive silence of the smallest hours of a Lantean morning, when even the Control Room beyond is darkened and skeleton-staffed.

/You know we will walk with you down whatever path you choose, pastor,/ she says at long last, her words soft but impossibly sincere. /To any end./

He lets his gaze drop at long last. "Thank you," he breathes.

He remains like that for a long time, until Chuck comes to tell him that the last of Elizabeta's possessions have been packed. They're ready to dial Terra and tell them the news.


	11. Angelus, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing's first, this was hard to start. Secondly, Jeannie is proving to be a lot tougher to write than I'd anticipated. She draws EVERYTHING out, and so I got nowhere near as far as I'd intended with this installment. Thirdly, this is probably the last story I finish for the AJ 'Verse for a while, as I'm shipping out on the 12th and will have no internet access until mid May at the earliest. Fourthly, I was bored today, so Iohannes & Rodney's new quarters can be seen [here.](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/204904.html) Fifthly, "Angelus" means "Angel" in Latin.   
> Oh yes, and six, I think this might be the closest to actual R scene I've ever written.

Jeannie is in the middle of making cupcakes when the doorbell rings. She glances at the oven timer - four-and-a-half minutes until the next batch is ready - and wipes her hands on her apron before answering the door.

"Hello," she says cautiously when she sees a blonde woman in military dress blues on her porch with two of Vancouver's finest. "Can I help you with something?"

"Jeanne Miller?"

"Yes." She swallows audibly. There's only one reason she can think of that an American Air Force officer might show up uninvited like this on her very Canadian doorstep and the very thought of it has her gripping the doorframe tightly. "Is my brother alright?" She and Mer might not be the closest, but they've started getting to know each other again since his own unexpected visit last summer. Admittedly, most of that's John's doing - she's been emailing her brother's boyfriend on a fairly regular basis, - but it's still better than what they had before. She can't lose him now.

The officer gives her a sympathetic smile. "I apologise. I realise how this must seem, but I assure you that, to the best of my knowledge, your brother is just fine. I'm Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter of the United States Air Force and I'm actually here with regards to a different matter."

Jeannie glances towards the kitchen. As important as this is, she just doesn't have the time to bake more cupcakes if something happens to these. "I see... Do you mind if we talk about this inside? I'm kind of in the middle of making cupcakes for my daughter's school bake sale, so..."

"Yes, of course." Colonel Carter dismisses the two VPD officers and follows her into the kitchen. "Rodney's never mentioned anything about having a niece."

"You know Meredith?"

"Meredith?"

"It's his name. Meredith Rodney McKay. He prefers 'Rodney' for some reason," Jeannie sighs, not really understanding it herself, and pulls the last batch of cupcakes out of the oven and setting them to cool on the stovetop. Several dozen are already awaiting frosting in their yellow and blue paper cups on the kitchen island.

"That's brilliant," the Colonel laughs, honest and true. "But, yes, I know your brother. I've worked with him on several occasions over the years. We're in the same field, academically," she elaborates at Jeannie's raised eyebrow.

"Engineering or physics?"

"Physics. Which is actually what brings me here."

"Oh?"

"Colonel Sheppard forwarded me a copy of the math proof you sent him several weeks ago. I must tell you, it's impressive work. Is it true you did the original calculations in finger paint?"

Jeannie blushes as she riffles through the knife drawer, looking for something to ice the cupcakes with. "Inspiration struck," she admits, grabbing a pair of spatulas before turning around. "I got caught up in the math. It happens sometimes."

"I understand. It happens to me all the time. I once-" she catches herself. "Well, the details aren't important. What 'is' is that your proof has some startling real world applications that we'd like you to consult with the United States military on. You would, of course, be compensated generously for your time."

Jeannie hands the Colonel a spatula and pushes the bowl of icing into the centre of the kitchen island. It's simple buttercream - homemade, with real ingredients instead of five kinds of chemicals someone brewed up in a lab somewhere just so a box can sit on a shelf for a while longer, just like the cupcakes.

"I fail to see what real world application a trans-universal matter bridge could have, even for the US military."  
The corner of Colonel Carter's tongue peeks out of her mouth as ices one of the cupcakes with, well, nothing short of military-grade precision. "I can go into more detail if you'd like, but first you'll need to sign a non-discloseure agreement."

"I'm sorry, Colonel-"

"Call me Sam, please." The corner of her mouth twitches. "We're practically family."

Jeannie's brow wrinkles, but she chooses not to question this odd assertion for the moment. Instead she continues, "Well then, I'm sorry Sam, but I believe that getting proprietary about our research and ideas is everything that's wrong with science today. If there's 'any' value to my proof, it's that it'll spark an idea in someone else. The last thing I'm going to do is sign away my rights, least of all to the US military."

To her surprise, Sam nods understandingly and ices another cupcake. "Normally I'd agree with you, but we're talking about some pretty exceptional circumstances here. There are some things that we are simply not prepared to tell the general public about at this time. Or that the general public is ready to hear. And while steps 'are' being taken to change that, the process would go much more smoothly if you agree to help us now."

"I'm sorry, but no."

Sam bites her lower lip and sets down her spatula. "Would it help any to know that you'd be working with your brother and Colonel Sheppard?"

"My brother's a genius and John's a Millennium Prize winner. I'm sure they can figure it out without me."

"While I'm sure that's true, it would be a lot easier - and go a lot faster - with your assistance."

Jeannie 'hmms' and ices another cupcake.

Sam sighs and pulls out a cellphone, sucking the icing off the ball of her thumb while she waits for it to connect. "Walter," she says when it finally does, "can you have Doctor McKay brought to his sister's house in Vancouver?" There's a pause. "Yes. As soon as possible." And another. "Promise him we'll have him back in under twenty-four hours. Oh, and try to make sure the IOA doesn't know he's coming. We don't want to open that can of worms quite yet if we can help it. Thanks, Walter." She snaps the phone shut. "Rodney should be here within the hour."

"You think bringing my big brother into this is going to change anything?"

Sam blinks, as if the thought that it wouldn't had never occurred to her, and picks up her spatula.

The Colonel has iced her way through three cupcakes before curiosity gets the better of Jeannie's anger. "I thought," she says, "that Mer was stationed somewhere in Afghanistan."

"God, no. Is that what he told you?"

"I read the article in 'Time' about John when the CMI announced he'd solved the Riemann Hypothesis. It said that John was in some dangerous part of Afghanistan, and where one is, the other's not far behind."

"Well," Sam muses, "you're not wrong about the second part."

Jeannie frowns. "Why would they lie about where he's posted?"

"It's complicated."

"How so?"

"That's complicated too."

Sighing, "What 'can' you tell me then?"

"Without signing the non-disclosure agreement? Not much."

"Alright, what about you?"

"Me?" Sam repeats, surprised.

"If we're going to be sitting here for an hour waiting for my brother to show up from whatever not-Afghanistan place you've got him tucked up away in," Jeannie points out, gesturing between them with her spatula, "you might as well tell me something about yourself. Unless," she smirks, "I've got to sign a non-disclosure agreement for that as well?"

"It's the price you pay."

"For what? Being a lead scientist on the next Manhattan Project?"

"You forget," Sam says, setting an iced cupcake carefully on the tray before carefully selecting another, "that the Manhattan Project didn't just build the weapon which ended the deadliest war in human history and saved the lives of countless Allied soldiers, sailors, and airmen. It also gave us atomic power, spurred advancements in nuclear medicine, and left behind a series of national laboratories, without which our current way of life would not be possible."

"Yes, because that excuses killing two hundred thousand people."

"Best estimates for Operation Downfall, the Allied plan to invade Japan, would've resulted in five hundred thousand American and six million Japanese deaths. That's the 'cold calculus of war' for you." She says it like she believes it - not in the fanatical, jingoistic way she's seen so much of since the towers fell, but with the quiet devotion of a soldier who'd do anything for the men and women fighting at her side. It's a tone she expects from war-weary veterans in the movies than a military scientist whose probably never seen a day of fighting in her life.

It doesn't change anything though.

"And how many people will this weapon you want to use my proof to build kill?"

"We don't want it for a weapon."

"Then why all the secrecy?"

"Sign the non-disclosure agreement and I'll tell you."

Jeannie looks at the dark grey folder sitting next to the plate of already frosted cupcakes. It can't hold more than five or six pages, for all it was delivered to her by a lieutenant colonel. "This form, it's just a non-disclosure agreement?"

"Yes."

"And it doesn't sign me into some sort of intellectual slavery to the US military?"

"Different forms. I don't have them with me - you have to sign the non-disclosure agreement before you can even read them."

"Alright." She sets down her spatula and picks up a pen. It may be a mistake, but she's never considered curiosity to be a fatal sin. "Where do I sign?"

"Just the places marked with the little post-it flags," Sam tells her, carefully peeling the paper off one of the just-iced cupcakes. "Mind if I...?"

"No. Sure. I mean, go right ahead." She signs her name in four places and pushes the folder towards the Colonel when she finishes. "So, what do you want to use my proof for?"

"The holy grail of high-energy physics: drawing zero point energy from a parallel space time without fear of creating exotic particles."

Jeannie blinks. Not what she'd expected. (Not that she knows what she expected, but it certainly wasn't anything like that.) "And Mer? Where are he and John stationed?"

Sam wipes stray frosting off her upper lip before answering with a wide grin, "The Lost City of Atlantis, on a planet some three million light years away in the Pegasus Galaxy - the irregular dwarf one, not the spheroidal. As far as we can tell, there's nothing of interest there."

"I see," Jeannie says faintly, feeling her blood sugar plummet. "I think I'll have a cupcake now myself."

* * *

The bed in their new suite shifts underneath him as John kisses a wet trail up his chest.

"God," Rodney groans.

"Not exactly," he chuckles, detouring to swirl his tongue around his left nipple.

"You think you're so funny."

"I think I'm hilarious," John says before leaning in to kiss the protest off his lips. It's a kiss that makes no pretence of chastity, with John quickly licking his way inside and pressing him into the bed as he ravages his mouth. Rodney can still taste himself on John's tongue, but that's quickly lost beneath the Ancient's own flavours - sea salt and root liquorice, cinnamon and nutmeg. Old flavours, ancient flavours, ones John still favours if given half a choice about the matter. Tastes that haven't change since he Ascended.

He's panting when John finally remembers he needs to breathe. "Keep that up and we might manage round three after all."

He feels John's lips twitch upwards from where they've gone back to mouthing the line of his jaw. "It's been," he says, "a hundred thirty," between, "days since I," kisses, "Ascended. I'd be more surprised if we couldn't."

"Don't remind me," Rodney mutters darkly.

John pulls back at this, choosing to collapse into a wriggling ball of laughter beside him on the bed rather than continue the 'very' interesting thing his tongue had been starting to do at the join of his neck. "You're the one," he gasps when he can finally string two words together, "who wanted to wait until we could both get off to do anything."

"Well sorry if I'd rather our sex life be a two-way street," he protests, face heating up.

(John had offered- Well, he'd offered a lot of things while he'd still be working through his Tactile Dysfunction - but the idea of using John that way had just felt wrong. He was Rodney's lover, not some kind of rent boy. If they were going to have sex, both of them were going to or neither would. Even if the wait had nearly killed him.)

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to."

"I know."

John hums contentedly. "Still, even better than I remembered."

"Oh? We grading ourselves now?"

"You're right. Probably a bad idea to start that. I mean, I'd give us a high eight, low nine for execution-"

Rodney slaps his shoulder.

John's smile just widens. "-but we'd barely scrape a four for difficulty."

He doesn't know whether to laugh or be outraged. He settles on the latter. "A four!"

"We could go for a seven and-" he stops mid-sentence as both their radios start beeping furiously. With a great sigh, John rolls over and plucks both off the bedside table. "This is Sheppard," he says into his, tossing Rodney his own. "You can't be serious."

Chuck's voice is already coming over the other end by the time Rodney gets his in his ear, "...so, Sir. Colonel Carter specifically requested his help. The SGC assures us that, regardless of the outcome, Doctor McKay will be back on Atlantis in less than a day."

"Help with what?" Rodney asks, already rolling out of bed - the blissful, San Francisco king-sized bed John had somehow convinced one of the Athosians on the mainland to make for them; what it lacks in prescription memory foam it makes up for with forty-nine square feet of feathery softness - and padding over to the crate full of clothes they've not gotten around to unpacking yet. Which is to say, all of them.

"Your sister."

"What about my sister?"

"I don't know the details, Sir, but apparently she's having difficulty securing her assistance with the Matter Bridge project."

"Of course she is," Rodney sighs, digging to the very bottom of the crate in search of civilian clothes that still fit. "I'll be there in fifteen." He yanks his radio back out and tosses it towards the bed. "Guess I'm going to get to try out that shower tonight after all."

John comes up behind him and pushes him towards the bathroom door. "Go ahead. I'll sort through this mess."

Rodney smiles tiredly at him. It's one o'clock in the morning local time and he'd had a long day 'before' they decided to christen their new quarters, so perhaps there's a bit too much honesty in his voice when he says, "Best boyfriend ever," meaning every word.

"Go," John repeats, lighting up like he's said something far more deep and meaningful than the simple truth. "Shower. The sooner you leave, the sooner we can pick up where we left off."

* * *

"So," Jeannie says when the shock has worn off somewhat, "the Lost City of Atlantis is real?"

"Yes. It was built by a race of people we call Ancients, most of whom abandoned it many thousands of years ago," Sam tells her matter-of-factly, taking a second cupcake. "We discovered it's location just over two years ago. Your brother was part of the first group to gate over."

"'Gate'?"

"The Ancients also left behind a network of devices that allow us to create artificial wormholes and travel to distant parts of the galaxy almost instantaneously.

We call them Stargates. Thus, gating."

"Please," she snorts, crossing the kitchen to get to the coffee maker, "artificial wormholes are about as likely as teleportation or time travel."

"Yes, well... The Ancients were an exceptionally advanced society. Along their other inventions is something we call a Zero Point Module, which is a source of incredible energy that works by extracting vacuum energy from an artificial region of space-time until it reaches maximum entropy."

"Which is why you need my proof," Jeannie ventures. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black's fine. And, actually, no. Your brother came up with a means to recharge dead ZPMs earlier this year. The problem is that they're incredibly rare devices. Between Earth and Atlantis we only have five, which sounds like a lot, but it really isn't. And that's where your proof comes in. If we can find some way to generate zero point energy without having to rely on ZPMs, we'd finally have a secure source of energy with which to defend ourselves."  
Jeannie sets a UBC mug in front of Sam. "Defend ourselves? Defend ourselves from what? Aliens?" she laughs.

"Yes."

"Oh," she says soberly, taking a sip of her own coffee.

"It's a lot to take in, I know. But believe me, if you agree to help us, you'd be helping to save a lot of lives. The enemies we face... They want nothing more than to destroy this planet and all that we hold dear. I understand how you must feel about the military, but you have to understand that there are billions of lives at stake. We can defend ourselves with what resources we already have, but, with your help, we can do so with less risk to human lives."

"The calculus of war, huh?"

"Pretty much."

Jeannie sighs. "Alright. I'll do it. I'll help." It makes her feel dirty, the thought of making something to perpetuate the war machine, but if it saves lives...

"Thank you, Mrs. Miller. Believe me when I say you're doing the galaxy a great service."

"How long would I be gone?"

"A month. Two at the most," Sam informs her, pulling out her cell phone. "I know you need to pack and say goodbye to your family. Can you be ready by six o'clock local time?"

Jeannie nods, not trusting her voice. Six o'clock. That's just over four hours to get ready.

"Good. I'll send someone to pick you up then. Oh, and thanks for the cupcakes," the Colonel says before seeing herself out, leaving Jeannie sitting among the trappings of a life she could never look at the same way again.


	12. Angelus, Part 2

"So," Rodney says, gesturing tiredly at the Gate Room as the wormhole disconnects behind his sister, "this is Atlantis. Welcome. Salutations. Pleasantries, et cetera, and so on and so forth. I know you've probably got a million questions, which is only to be expected, but I've not slept in like two days and it's got to be about midnight your time, so how about we find out where your guest quarters are and pick the explanations up in a couple hours or so?"

Jeannie nods silently beside him, her eyes almost as big as her yawn.

"Good," he tells her, yawning himself, and drags her up the Gate Room stairs to find out where John's decided they're putting his sister up for the month or so she'll be here. With any luck, it'll be somewhere far, far from their new suite and, with even greater luck, somewhere she can keep out of trouble until he's had time to explain to her all the things she needs to know about the Pegasus galaxy. That's all he asks.

* * *

Jeannie wakes up slowly, in the lazy Sunday morning way. The bed is soft and the blankets are just the right kind of warm, and if it wasn't for the lemon-coloured light pouring through the gauzy white curtains, she'd gladly drift back to sleep. As it is, it's a small miracle she's been allowed to sleep in this long. It may be the weekend and Kaleb may have the day off, but-

It's not the weekend, she remembers. It's only Thursday, meaning Kaleb has his early class to teach. So unless by some hereto unheard of miracle she's managed to sleep through him getting ready for the day 'and' Madison's demands for breakfast, something strange is going on.

She opens her eyes.

Make that something seriously strange.

She's in a long, narrow room she doesn't recognise. Dark bookshelves completely line the opposite wall and most of the upper portion of the one her bed is pushed flush against. What free wall space there is is painted a cheery cream that goes well the floorboards, as is the ceiling. An ocean breeze is drifts through the open windows. She can just make out a pair of low, male voices talking in the next room.

"...for five hours. You'll never fall asleep tonight if you don't get up now," presses the first, his voice just side of familiar.

"Who says I 'want' to sleep tonight?" the second asks suggestively and- and- God, it's 'Mer'. It's her 'brother'. And she thinks she could've gone her whole life without ever hearing him use that tone, thank you very much, and-

Jeannie remembers where she is now. She's in her brother's guest room in the Lost City of Atlantis, which hasn't been as lost as it's been made out to be for several years now. It's just been on another planet. In another galaxy. Which apparently is possible.

The first - John - laughs, deeply and warmly. "That's up to you, buddy. But I figure you'll want dinner either way and they start serving in half-an-hour, so..."

"Alright, alright, I'm up." Mer groans. "You wake Jeannie yet?"

"She's the next McKay on my list."

Taking this as her cue, Jeannie slides out of bed - more of an oversized daybed built into the wall, really - and pulls on her robe. Now that she thinks about it, she's starving. She's not had anything since those cupcakes this afternoon. Yesterday. Several hours ago. God, what time is it here anyway? How does timekeeping even work on an alien planet? Do they still use a twenty-four hour clock or...?

There's a weird chime at her door and a hesitant, "Jeannie?"

"Come in," she calls.

John does just that, smiling charmingly at her. "Hey. You're awake. Good. It's almost dinnertime, if you're hungry. I'm not sure how much of it vegetarian, but

I'm sure we can rustle you up something."

"What time is it?"

"1907," he tells her without even looking at his watch, choosing instead to use his hands to spin around the chair from the desk tucked into one corner and sit it it, backwards. "Lantea - that's the name of the planet, by the way - has a twenty-eight hour rotation on it's axis. It's got a three hundred thirteen day rotation around it's sun, Igerna, though, so our calendar and Terra's match up fairly closely. Though it is spring here now; I understand that throws some people."

"I see," Jeannie says faintly, sitting back down on the bed. "I'm having a hard time believing this is real."

"I'm told that it's a lot to take in all at once. I've never understood why the SGC doesn't just come out and tell people about it myself, but that's not my decision to make. Unfortunately."

"Exactly! Something like this, it must be almost impossible to keep secret."

"You'd think, but what do I know?"

"How'd you take it, when you found out? I'm assuming they didn't just throw you through the Stargate and expect you to pick it up as you went along like they've done for me."

John's eyebrows lift almost comically in surprise. "You mean nobody told you?"

Curious, "Tell me what?"

"I'm just saying, it's usually the first thing they mention. Normally it's like they can't shut up about it. Drives me up a wall, really, but it's not like I can do anything to stop them, so..."

"John, in the last twenty-four hours I've learned out that the Lost City of Atlantis is real, that it was built by aliens, that those aliens also made space travel by artificial wormhole possible, and that my brother has been living in a different galaxy for two plus years. I don't think there's much you could say at this point that could surprise me."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he says lightly, plucking at the laces of the strange, old-fashioned bracers he's wearing. Then, eyes turning briefly heavenwards, "Alright. Here goes nothing," John sighs,. "Y'know those 'aliens,' the ones who built Atlantis, the ones the Terrans call Ancients?"

Jeannie fails to see where this is going. "Yeah?"

"Well," he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, "I'm kinda one of them. The last one, really. My name's not really John, it's Iohannes Ianiedus Licinus Pastor, but you can go on calling me John. Most people do. Or Sheppard, but that's more of a title actually than a real translation of my name."

"I'm sorry, what?" she baulks, trying to process this new piece of information and failing utterly.

"I'm not human. Not as you understand them, at least."

"You look human."

He shrugs. "My people seeded humanoid life throughout the universe. It was kinda a thing we did for a while. You guys evolved to look like us."

Jeannie wants to think of another reason why what John's saying is impossible. She's been emailing him for months; he slept in her house. She's certain she'd have picked up on it a long time ago if John was really an alien. But she can't. It's absolutely absurd, but then again so is everything about this situation. She has no choice but to believe.

"And how many of you are there in Atlantis?"

"Just me. Like I said, I'm the last one."

"What happened to all the others?"

"It's kinda long story."

"I'd like to hear it."

One side of John's mouth twitches upwards. "Over dinner, maybe? The mess starts serving in a couple of minutes and you're bound to be hungry, so..." He rises out of the chair. "If you wanna take a shower first, there's no rush."

Jeannie can't help but smiling back at him as she pushes herself once again off the bed. "Mer might argue otherwise."

"He'll survive somehow, I'm sure."

* * *

"You bastard!" Jeannie says, slapping his arm the moment she's within reach.

"What?" he yelps indignantly.

"You could have told me your boyfriend is an alien."

Oh. That. Rodney'd known he'd forgotten something last night. He's just glad it's nothing actually important. "Technically he's not an alien. He was born on this planet, we weren't. So, if you think about it, we're the aliens here."

She hits him again.

"Is the violence really necessary?" he asks, rubbing the spot and skulking down the hall, towards the room John's claimed as his office.

"You know what I mean," she reiterates, unapologetic.

Rodney sighs. "I couldn't tell you before. I mean, without knowing about the Stargates, would you even have believed me if I'd tried?"

"And what about last night? Maybe at some point between 'oh, by the way, space travel is real' and 'here's where you'll be staying' you could have mentioned that your live-in boyfriend is a real, live Ancient. Would that really have been so hard?"

"It kind of slipped my mind."

"How does the fact that your boyfriend isn't human 'slip your mind'?"

"I don't know, maybe because it doesn't really matter? He's still the same guy you met last year, just with a slightly different background. And," he sighs again, wishing that he'd taken the time to unpack the coffee maker last night after all, "can we not use the term 'boyfriend'? I'd rather not have my love life confused with more after-school drama than absolutely necessary."

Jeannie, naturally, continues on her own tangent, as if his own part in the conversation is only incidental. "It's not that I 'care' that he's an alien. Male, female, human, alien, robot - I don't care 'who' you date, I'd just like to know these things."

"I'm sorry, but remind me: when, exactly, did it become 'your' business who 'I' date?"

"It's not, but-"

He snaps his fingers. "Exactly. It's not."

"Meredith!"

"Jeanne, I'm thirty-eight years old. I've been sleeping with men since I was an undergrad. It wasn't your business then and it's not your business now, even if all of them were aliens." Rodney pauses. That had made a lot more sense in his head. He presses on anyway, adding. "And, seriously, you thought 'robot' was actually an option?"

She throws her hands into the air. "Well how was I supposed to know it wasn't? I only just learned aliens actually exist twelve hours ago. Forgive me for going ahead and assuming everything else vaguely 'Star Trek' is real too!" She lets her hands fall loudly to her side. "Good god, Mer, I've been arguing about values of the parameters in the Drake Equation with an alien." She slumps against the packing crate blocking the rest of the hallway. "I've been arguing with an alien for five months that his assumptions for the number of inhabitable and inhabited planets was far too high. That even the original solution was overly optimistic."

"Yeah, well..." he says somewhat awkwardly, not quite sure what to do now that his sister's stopped shouting. Rodney settles for shoving his hands into his pockets and continuing, "Drake couldn't take the Ancients' penchant for terraforming or panspermia into account, so it's not like he could get an accurate equation at all. Though I suppose that, had the Ancients not decided to interfere, the Drake Equation probably would've had it right."

Which is, naturally, when the source of all this trouble decides to poke his head out of his office. "Hey, remind me to bring that up next time Ganos decides to pop in again."

Rodney frowns. "Is that likely?" He's never met the woman, but he sincerely doubts he could ever even be civil to the person responsible for John's current Ascended state.

"She's my probation officer," John shrugs, stepping around the packing crates to join them in the hall. "Once a year check-ins are mandatory. Not sure if she counted her stunt with Doctor Jackson though. Hope so. The woman's a meretrix if there ever was one."

He can practically hear Jeannie blink. "Probation officer?"

"Long story."

"That's what you said earlier," she points out petulantly.

Rodney snorts. "The longest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the end - for now. I leave for Basic tomorrow morning ([see here for details](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/207183.html)) and must leave this story until I get back, sometime around mid-May. I really wanted to finish this fic before I left, but RL issues (and Jeannie herself) prevented that. So, this is the natural place to stop with what I have, and, with luck, I'll be back soon to finish it (and the rest of the series) off.   
> Thank you for all your love, support, and reviews for the journey so far.


	13. Angelus, Part 3

Jeannie knocks tentatively on the door of her brother's bedroom. It's quiet in there now, but she hasn't spent two weeks in her brother's apartment, sharing a bedroom wall with Mer and his live-in boyfriend, without learning to be weary of such things. If it wasn't for the fact that her brother is one of the involved parties, she'd be jealous (her own honeymoon period with Kaleb cut rather short by Madison's birth).

Mostly, though, she just wishes they'd be quieter.

Still, she knocks. Quietly. Tentatively. And when she doesn't hear an immediate shout for her to go away, she waves her hand over the door controls.

They open slowly.

"Mer?"

There's a low grunt.

"Mer?" she tries again.

"I swear, if this is anything less than the end of the world, I will hide the pieces so deep even your own mother won't notice you've gone missing."

"Mom died twelve years ago, you jerk."

She hears a long, muffled groan.

"What do you want, Jeannie?"

"Can we talk?"

Mer groans again, barely lifting his face out of his pillow. "Jeannie, I've been up for fifty-two hours straight and finally have a chance to try to sleep for six hours - max, if I'm lucky - without being bothered by incompetent Gate techs or conference attendees asking how to work the showers. So, this better be important, or, so help me God, sister or not, I will not be responsible for my actions."

Jeannie can't help it: she rolls her eyes. "You're such a child."

"I'm the Chief Science Office of the coolest, most advanced city in the universe. I can act however the hell I want.

"Real mature, Meredith."

Mer finally lifts his head off the pillow and shifts around to face her. "Again, Chief Science Officer. Atlantis. So, what do you want, Jeannie? I'm tired."

Jeannie takes another few steps into the room, pauses, then takes a few more. Now that she's here, she's not entirely sure how to go about this. Or if she really should go about it at all.

No, she takes that back. She 'has' to do this. It's her job as Mer's sister, even if they've never really been close, and what closeness they've gained in the last year or so has mostly been because of John and not any real action on Mer's part (or, admittedly, her own).

"It's about John," she says after a deep, bracing breath.

Mer sits straight up, the blanket pooling around his waist. Luckily, he's dressed, still in his rumpled Expedition uniform, sans jacket. "What about John," he asks, sounding far more awake than he had moments before.

"It's about you and John, actually."

"I'm listening," he replies testily.

"It's not," she broaches slowly, "that I don't 'like' John. Far from it. He's amazing and you two are brilliant together - I've never seen you happier. But..."

"But?"

"It's just..." she plunges in. "Carson was telling me the other day about what happened to him - to John, not himself, that is - and how he's Ascended now and..."

"Go on," he says more testily still, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"It's just, are you sure it's the smartest thing to do - not getting involved with an alien, I'll leave that up to your expertise," Jeannie adds quickly, remembering their argument of two weeks ago, the aftermath of which very nearly had lasted all of her first week. "I mean with someone who can't die, or age, or isn't really even flesh and blood."

"We've worked through it."

"For now. But what happens when you start to get old."

Mer rolls his eyes. "Please. John's got this whole enlightened, omnisexual, sapiosexual thing going on. If anyone's the shallow one in this relationship, it's me. By like a parsec."

"Okay, okay," she backtracks, holding up her hands unthreateningly. "I'm not saying John'll leave you. God, the guy is head over heels for you - anyone can see it. It's just... how will 'you' feel when you start to grow older and he stays the same age forever?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Daringly, Jeannie takes a few more steps into the room. Then, more daringly still, she perchs on the edge of John and Mer's (frankly embarrassingly) huge bed.

"I don't want to tell you what do do here. Hell, I've been here fifteen days and I'm still completely out of my depth. All I know is, as good as you two are now, I just can't see how it can possibly work out in the long term between you. It's not just that he's Ascended and you're not, it's everything else too - this conference," the one that had started not long after she'd arrived, for which delegates from half-a-dozen different planets have shown up to discuss the charter for the galactic confederation they are setting out to build, and which has taken up most of John's time - and a good part of Mer's - ever since, "and the fact that they're trying to make him the god-damn emperor of this entire galaxy.

"No, actually, forget that, you could probably work through that as well. It's the fact that this galaxy considers him to be their one and true 'God'. A 'god', Meredith. How is that supposed to work? A god and a mortal? 'Cause that never words out in the myths-"

"My life is not a myth."

"You live in The Lost City of Atlantis. You're dating the last member of the race that created humanity. You gate to other planets on an almost daily basis."

Mer uncrosses his arms. "Alright. maybe it has some fantastical aspects, I'll give you that, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to start taking life advice from Greek legends. Especially when three fourths of them are based off of goa'uld politics."

"Meredith," she sighs, "I'm not saying that it can't work out. Maybe it can. Any fool off the street can see he's in love with you."

"We're gay, Jeannie, but we're not 'that' gay."

"He looks at you like you hung the moon and stars," she tells him dryly, "and, if you asked him, he'd probably tell you that you make the sun shine too."

"Not. That. Gay," Mer repeats, more amused than genuinely bothered.

"Whatever. I'll I'm saying is he loves you, but I don't know if that's enough."

Sighing, "What are you saying, Jeannie? That I should brake up with him 'cause it 'might' not work out?"

"No, I'm-"

"We've worked through our problems. John didn't want to move in together at first, but we worked through it. He Ascended and lost his corporeality, but we worked through it. God or not, Emperor or not, we can work through it. We've beaten worse odds, we can beat these as well."

"Alright," she says, standing. "Alright. I just wanted to put that out there."

"Well, now you have," Mer huffs, flopping back onto the bed.

Jeannie bites her lip. "Okay," she says quietly, heading for the door. "I'm going to bed then. I'll be up for a little while longer, though, if you want to talk."

"I won't."

"Okay then." The door snaps shut behind her irritatedly. "I'm just trying to look out for him," she whispers to the ceiling. "I'm just trying to look out for the both of them."

The air filters clatter softly above her. Maybe the city, unarguably sentient, understands. Despite everything, she loves her brother. She loves John too. She just wants what's best for them both, but she has no idea how a relationship could ever work out between a god and a mortal. Not even if they're John and Mer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back. This is part of the group that I wrote while in the Separations barracks (I actually got through 4.5 stories - as far as "The Return," pt. 1, actually) that I'll be posting here as I can type them up. So probably every other day or so. Be warned, I had no access to any of my research or background materials there, so if things seem not right/contradict something previous, that is why. Tell me and I'll correct it ASAP.   
> But this finishes up "Angelus" but not "McKay and Mrs. Miller." That will come tomorrow(ish). As for everything else... well, I'm glad to be back, even if I didn't want it to go this way, and I'm beyond thankful to all of you who supported me through this trial.


	14. Princeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Princeps' translates directly to 'Prince,' but it's more accurate Roman translation is 'first in time or order; first, chief, most eminent, distinguished or noble' and, in many ways, is more important than 'Imperator' as a title of a Roman Emperor, the latter being merely 'commander' and given to distinguished generals, whereas 'Princeps' has the whole 'sense of republic' feel behind it.  
> 'Schimaticus' is a schismatic, ie, a heretic like Chaya who calls herself a god but is not Ori. 'Haereticus' is a heretic, ie, an Ori. 'Haeresis' is 'heresy' and applies to any Ancient/Ori who calls/believes himself to be a god.  
> I've named M7G-677 Piraeus for no reason I can remember. Harmony's planet is now called Kenosha, because it was never given a name, and the planet from "Coup D'etat" became Winnetka for the same reason - both of which are stops on the train I took getting home.  
> 'Pontifex' is 'high priest' or 'bishop'. 'Servola fabricata' are litterally 'Robots of Manufacturing,' ie, remote mining probe.   
> Also, if anyone's curious, the signing date is 10 October, 2006.

They call him Lord Iohannes and bow their heads when he passes. Tribute in the form of fruit, flowers, and flat bread starts appearing on the Gate Room steps. Attendance at the Athosian's Altar Room is through the roof, particularly among the conference delegates from Pyrderi and Dagan.

Iohannes can feel the power flowing into him with every prayer, each one slowly but steadily increasing the quantity already at his disposal.

So this what it's like to be a god.

A 'schismaticus'.

A 'haereticus'.

He almost wants to wash his hands and keep washing them until all of the 'Haeresis' and filth on his skin is washed way - until the skin and bone and blood itself is gone and he's nothing but pure light once more, untainted by false idols and apotheosis.

Almost.

The rest of him thrums from the power. Iohannes has never felt this good - this confident - this in control - before. Already in the short time since his Ascension, the power at his command has grown tenfold. He's still not strong enough to face off against the Others on his own, to say nothing of the Haeretici, but he's certain that he's strong enough to protect Atlantis if the Wraith or Asurans were ever to come against her again; more than strong enough to protect her if the

Genii or any of their other native allies were ever to turn against them.

Not that he thinks that will ever happen.

Of the six peoples that are taking part in the Confederation Conference, the Taranins and the Daganans are so entrenched in their faith in the Ancestors - in him - that Iohannes doesn't think the idea of defying could ever occur to them. He's known the Athosians too long for them to easily give up that friendship either. Only the Genii are wild cards. Ladon might not be Kolya or even Cowen, but he's still Genii. Their militaristic, opportunistic streak runs deep; deeper still in any man able to rise to the rank of First Minister. If it ever appears to be in his best interests to turn against Atlantis, he will take it, no doubt about it. It's his nature. Granted, Ladon has enough foresight that he'd probably hold off on such a move until they've taken care of the Wraith, but nothing is certain in this universe. Of that, Iohannes is more than sure.

Of the other three participants, Keras' people, the Piraeans, are too few; the Kenoshans are too weak; and the Winnetkans, while under the Genii's thumb, are more followers than wave-makers.

So, provided Iohannese can win the Genii's trust - or keep them under his control until the rest of the galaxy has joined the Confederation - then they're in the free and clear.

Atlantis will be safe at last. Even if it means becoming a god.

* * *

The Confederation Conference - the first of several, for there are already three more planned, to cover such topics as trade, religion, and the Wraith, and probably at least another two in the wings - is Elizabeta's brainchild. As a career diplomat, she'd been looking forward to helping charter a a brand new and utterly unprecedented form a government. Her unfortunate, unforgivable death has done little more than move up the timetable. (Elizabeta had wanted to wait until after the Terran new year before even considering hosting formal talks, whereas Iohannes had decided to move them up to mid-September, barely a month after being named acting Head of the Expedition.)

But the talks are still Elizabeta's baby. And while most of the Charter was a Pegasus friendly riff off the Terran United Nations Charter, what changes have been made to the original document had been penned by her.

Oh, others have done their parts too - Radek and Dahlia Radhim, for instance, have been instrumental in creating The Declaration of Universal Rights, which lists such things as freedom of speech and proscription of slavery, which Iohannes hadn't thought anyone might need directly spelled out, - but the conference was Elizabeta's. And, as such, Iohannes feels uncomfortable chairing it. Even if he is the one they're about to name Emperor of Pegasus. Especially if.  
So he takes every chance he can to escape, leaving the delegates in Teyla's far more capable hands while he runs errands that he should rightfully give to whatever Gate tech is playing executive assistant for him that shift.

Which is, of course, how he ends up in the Clean Room, looking for Rodney to ask the far-from-urgent question, "Do you have any idea how you go about accrediting a college?"

All three heads bent over the nearest tablet - Rodney's, Radek's, and Jeannie's - snap up, the first asking quite eloquently, "What?"

"Colleges. Universities. Institutions of higher learning. How d'you go about accrediting them on Terra?"

Radek blinks.

Jeannie looks confused.

Rodney just fixes him with a 'look' that seems to say that he already knows exactly what's going on and is only saying anything aloud to make completely clear how incredibly stupid he finds the whole idea. "Tell me you did not just do what it sounds like you've done."

He beams at his 'amator'. "Yep." Iohannes rocks back on his heels. "I also endowed a hospital and made Teyla the 'pontifex' of my religion. You want to be it's first president, or you gonna pawn that off on Doctor Z too?"

"I'm sorry," Jeannie interrupts, "but what exactly is it that you've done?"

Doctor Z shakes his head. "Unless I am much mistaken, the Colonel here has chartered a college for Atlantis and what to place your brother in charge."

Iohannes shifts his grin his way. "I am thinking of calling it just UA - y'know, 'University of Atlantis.' One of the anthropologists who's documenting the whole thing suggested naming it after Father, but I think that opens the door to a worse Imperial cult situation than we already have.

"I'm calling the hospital 'The Elizabeta Molia Praefecta Imperial Healthcare Centre,' or IHC."

Earlier peevishness momentarily forgotten, Rodney swallows before managing, "I think Elizabeth would have liked that."

"Yes, well," his eyes drop to the floor and his hands fall from his hips. "I couldn't save her before. Maybe if we'd a proper hospital on Atlantis we might've been able to. I figure we can likely scavenge most the equipment from around the city, but the bandages and vaccines and stuff we'll have to get from Terra."

"That could get expensive fast," Jeannie points out.

He shrugs. "'Lantis has been investing the money the SGC insists on paying me in something called 'The Stock Market'. She tells me that between what she's already done and what I should be getting in reward money for that math proof next time I'm on Terra, there'll be more than enough to fun both for a long while."

She hakes her head. "But still, John, a college?"

"We can't fight the Wraith with just one 'linter', and there's nowhere else we can send them to learn what they'll need to know, not so long as your planet stupidly insists on letting it's population believe it's alone in the universe."

"But we only have 'one' spaceship, Colonel."

"But we can build more," he tells Radek confidently.

They can scrounge crystals from the city. Wiring for circuitry and various plastics can be imported from Terra. Now that they have a pair of charged ZPMS, they can even build 'servola fabricata' to collect the raw materials they'll need from uninhabited worlds in Pegasus itself. With a little work, they can easily get Atlantis' metalworks up and running again. His people did it before, in the middle of the Siege - the remaining 'urbes-naves' had built dozens of 'lintres' each after the Fall of Tarquinius. The Expedition can easily repeat the task now.

"'We can build more,' he says," Rodney snorts. "What about the little problem of how none of the natives in this galaxy having the ATA gene, hmm? Unless your dad sewed more wild oats than you've been letting on."

Iohannes rolls his eyes. "We don't have to put that part in."

"Oh, yes, because that can be done."

"Like I know. I just want 'lintres.' You're the scientist. You figure it out."

"Of course, because I don't have literally thirty-seven other open projects to worry about, including this one here, which may very well rip a hole in the fabric of multiple universes if we screw it up."

Teasingly, "Well, if it's too much for you..."

"Now hold on," Rodney blusters. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that this is going to push the other ones back a couple of months."

"Well, if that's the best you can do..."

Rodney narrows his eyes.

"So. UA: yes or no? 'Cause, Doctor Z, you're more than welcome to it if Rodney doesn't want it."

He throws his hands into the air. "Fine. Yes. I'll do it, if only to spare the people of this galaxy whatever ex-Soviet excuse for a university Mr. Fumbles McStupid over here would foist upon the weak and unsuspecting. But," his 'amator' adds archly, stabbing the air with a finger, "don't expect me to teach. I'm far too important and far too busy to try to explain something as complicated and delicate as hyperspace flight to the knuckleheads the natives laughingly call scientists."

With a grin, "I never expected otherwise," Iohannes assures him. "So, how goes it here? Any luck on the whole Matter Bridge front?"

"A little," Jeannie admits. "We think we have the science down, it's just taking a while to crunch the numbers."

"Yes," Radek adds. "McKay and I have been working in base-8 maths for a while now, but neither of us have quite your proficiency."

Iohannes rolls his eyes and extends his hand, wriggling his fingers for the tablet. "Hand it over. I'll take a look at it."

The Czech smiles beatifically at him before doing so. They don't really need him here - sure, Iohannes 'is' better at base-8 than they are, but only because he grew up with it; Rodney and Radek are more than adequate at it - but they all know how little he wants to go back to the conference, with it's bickering delegates and kowtowing natives. Any excuse to keep him away will do.

* * *

Despite all his absences, intentional and otherwise, the First Confederation Conference concludes less than three weeks after it begins, producing both a charter of confederation and Radek's Declaration of Universal Rights. The latter is expansive, guaranteeing every freedom Iohannes, as an Alteran, has ever taken for granted and more than a few he'd never thought to question. But the former...  
The former is a work of art. While most of it is lifted from already extant Terran and Pegasus documents, the preface is all Elizabeta's, and it is is this Iohannes reads at the signing Ceremony on the final day of the conference, in one of the Great Halls of the old 'Academia' spruced up to act as a ceremonial area for the occasion.

"Sometimes," he reads, his dreamt-up formal clothes itching against his dreamt-up skin,"in the course of history..."

* * *

SOMETIMES in the course of history, it becomes necessary for people to join together in common cause, regardless of race, nationality, religion, gender, sexual preference, caste, level of scientific and industrial progress, or planet of origin.

OFTEN these are times of great peril and hardship, borne out of gravest necessity and falling apart as soon as their objectives have been achieved.

TODAY, however, we are strong. As a galaxy, we have never been stronger. And so by joining this strength together, we hope to build an alliance that will stand all tests and defeat all enemies, and in so doing improve the lives, prosperity, and progeny of all those under it's aegis.

AND so to this end we, the undersigned, and all future signatories write this, The Charter of the Confederation of Pegasus, and decree its articles into law for the betterment of all peoples of this galaxy.

* * *

Iohannes signs first, the straight, orderly Alteran letters strange beneath so much meandering English text. Teyla signs next in her own flowing Athosian script, then Chancellor Lycas for the Taranins, and so on until the Genii First Minister, Ladon Radhim adds his name at the bottom of the final sheet.

There's silence in the hall as Ladon sets down his pen. When he looks up, meeting Iohannes square in the eye, everyone can hear his quiet, "Long live Iohannes, by the will of the Ancestors Lord of Atlantis, Emperor of Pegasus."

The room reverberates as the crowd echoes, "Long live the king," and Iohannes can feel his power soar.


	15. Alii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third of 5 stories written while I was in SEPS. The delay on this one is both for length, and the fact that I ended up rewriting one of the sections (as well as RL issues). This is both the last "McKay and Mrs. Miller" story (at last! I know) and fulfills a long-running dream I've had to explain Vegas!Rodney's comment about having met our version of John before in that episode.

There hadn't even been a question about it: Iohannes had turned the third bedroom of his and Rodney's new suite into an office even before they'd officially moved in.

It is more of a question of necessity than design. As Head of the Expedition until such a time as the IOA named a proper replacement for Elizabeta (a process, Rodney assures him, which could take months, if not years), the amount of paperwork he is required to complete daily has tripled. And, lacking a proper replacement for himself as military commander of the city (while Lorne is away on Rory's shakedown cruise, at least), he still has all of his old paperwork to contend with as well. To say nothing of all the paperwork his new position as Emperor of Pegasus generates.

Bureaucracy. It doesn't matter what plane of existence he's on, he can't escape it.

He's ordered a pair of executive assistants to help him deal with it all on the next 'Daedalus' run, but that's still the better part of two weeks out. They tell him they're sending him a young seaman apprentice straight out of NTTC Meridian to take care of the military matters so that neither he or Lorne have to worry about it anymore (and to quell the Navy's complaints that their abilities were being under-utilised by the SGC) and a Russian anthropologist to handle the civilian-side of the paperwork (and to answer similar accusations from Russia). Rodney keeps telling him he should've held out for a third, to take care of all his 'king business', but none of the candidates the Terrans have offered him so far have seemed appropriate. Maybe he'll find someone from Pegasus to fill the billet, or maybe he'll stumble across someone tolerable when they go to Terra to accept the Fields Medal and Abel Prize in a few months.

Either way, all it means for the moment is that Iohannes has more paperwork to contend with daily than do some smaller Terran nations, and as a result spends most of his non-working hours in his office, plugging his way through it. In a way, it's fortuitous that he doesn't need to sleep any longer, as Iohannes wouldn't be getting much of it now if he did, but mostly it's just annoying. He's a man of actions, not words, and even with the translation matrix staring at so much English for so long gives him a headache.

Not that he really has a translation matrix at the moment, let alone a head to ache, but the basic idea is the same. He's pretending to be mortal, flesh and blood and all, and mortal ailments are a part of that.

Getting back to the point, however, Iohannes is in his office, working on paperwork regarding the authorisation of trade goods (read: basic medical care) to be sent to Winneka in exchange for one-half the planet's harvest of balinghoi (a cassava-like tuber) and one-third their harvest of tavabeans for two of Winneka's years. It's something which can be sealed with a handshake and a pot of stout tea in Pegasus but somehow requires over three hundred pages of paperwork for Terra, with Iohannes' initials on every one.

He's debating with himself on whether or not he can get away with filling out the rest in Alteran - an altogether simpler and easier script than this "Roman letter" business - or if doing so will just mean he'll have to redo it all at a later date when a shadow appears in the doorway. It's backlit at first but even before it moves into the light Iohannes recognises it. He'd know that form anywhere:

It's tall, solid but not thick, soft in all the right places and hard in all the others. It's not exceptionally fit, though the hips are narrower than they once were and the arms more toned. Most people would probably find nothing but faults with it - the thinning hair, the pudgy stomach - but that's not the stuff that matters. Not really. Not to him. It's the personality, the mind beneath that he needs. A different makeup, a different mentality, and it might be a different story altogether.

"Hey Rodney," he grins, throwing down his stylus.

"Hey John," Rodney yawns. He's wearing a soft blue shirt that proclaims resistance to be futile (if 1 ohm) and a pair of striped boxers that manage to class with it more utterly and completely than Iohannes ever would have believed possible. His hair is flat on one side, heavily cow-licked on the other, and there are lines across his skin from the creases in the sheets.

Iohannes wants nothing more than to kiss him, so he pushes himself out from behind his desk and does just that.

Rodney hums a little into his mouth, then makes a small, unhappy sound as he pulls away. "I thought," he asks, equal parts sleepy, weary, and irritated, "the whole point of us moving in together was so that we could actually sleep 'together'."

"We 'do' sleep together," Iohannes reminds him, lowers his hands to his 'amator's' hips and giving them a gentle squeeze. "Or have you managed to forget that somehow?"

Rolling his eyes, "You know what I mean."

"Yeah," he admits somewhat sheepishly, "I do"

"I know you don't need to sleep now - that you really can't - but you can't spend all your time working."

"Now that's a sentence I never thought I'd hear you say."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But if I've got to take breaks, so do you."

"Oh, really?" Iohannes grins before pressing a kiss into his shoulder. "Is that so?"

"I could make it worth your while."

"Well... you were asleep when I got in, and I've never been one for somniphilia."

"I'm not asleep now," Rodney, voice husky from more than sleep, whispers, sliding his arms up Iohannes' back before wrapping them around his shoulders.

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," Rodney agrees, leaning in to kiss him with soft, comfortable intent that quickly shifts to something deeper and infinitely more profound.

'Lantis dims the lights in the office as Iohannes starts to walk them backwards. Their bedroom's not far, but the living room with its oversized, overstuffed couch is closer. Besides, 'Lantis can always warn them if it looks like Jeannie's going to try to leave the guest room.

* * *

"Y'know," John says, poking at the control interface they've setup in the Clean Room, "I've absolutely no idea how this is supposed to work."

Jeannie looks at him askance. "But you've been helping us with the maths," she reminds, gesturing pointedly at the flock of the whiteboards still filled with equations in the far corner.

"Doesn't mean I understand any of the science behind it."

"Don't listen to him," her brother grouses. "he's nowhere near as stupid as he likes to let people believe. Not that it's actually 'possible' to be that stupid and have made it past age twelve, even with a sentient city watching your back."

"Hey, I'm a numbers man. You wanna talk functional analysis or variational calculus, I'm your guy. But you wanna talk about exotic particles or alternate universes, I only know what you you guys tell me."

Rodney rolls his eyes, clearly having none of it.

Jeannie regards the Anceint thoughtfully. All the magazines she'd read back on Earth about John and his solution to the Riemann Hypothesis had made him out to be this highly educated man who'd felt so strongly that it was his his duty to serve his country any way he could that he'd joined the Air Force, regardless of the opportunities that existed for a man of his intelligence and skill in the civilian world.

She thinks the real story is much different. Not the intelligence bit - it's obvious that his IQ gives Mer's a run for it's money, or would if he let it. No, she gets the impression that John dropped out of school - or was made to leave it - early on. That, despite this, he'd managed to teach himself the things which mattered to him, which amounted to anything that 'didn't' matter to Janus, his father. No science, just pure mathematics and obscure, truly ancient Ancient texts. Maybe a few, cherished other things as well. Things that even Mer doesn't know about.

As for the military... Well, there's no doubt that he loves to fly or that he'd give his heart and soul to defend Atlantis, but the 'need' to serve isn't there. The need to protect, to guard, to make safe, yes, but if the Ancients hadn't been at war in his lifetime, Jeannie thinks he'd never have become a solider. She's not sure what he might have been instead - a mathematician, maybe, or something else entirely. All she knows is that the John she thought she knew and the John that really exists, while similar, are hardly the same.

Atlantis is all about changing, she's discovered. The city may be older than humanity itself (and doesn't that give her pause), but it's always changing. John and Mer claim it's alive, and while she doesn't 'quite' believe them, she can see where they might get the idea:

There's something ancient and eternal, delicate and insubstantial, dangerous and stronger than the foundations of the earth about Atlantis. Towers like glass spindles rise from pale waters to scrape empyrean heights. Piers unfold like petals, long and low, to reach for the sea. It is a glistening gem in the daylight and a shining beacon at night. But for all this, it's terribly ephemeral for such an eternal city, never quite the same from any one moment to the next.

It changes people too. It's changed her in the short amount of time she's been here, Jeannie knows. But it's changed nobody as much as it's changed Mer.

Or maybe not. She'd barely been in 'maternelle' when Mer had gone off to MIT and had only rarely seen him after that. Even when Mom and Dad died and Mer had become her guardian, he'd still been separate. Apart. In the rare times Jeannie actually had seen her brother, he'd appeared to her to be like one of those scientists of old, caring more for the science than the practical applications of his work. Bombs, spy satellites, computer viruses - 'what' the things he'd built did never seemed to matter as much to him as the fact that he was able to build it.

But now...

Now it is real for him. He sees the people his bombs kill when they work and the people that got killed when they dodn't. It's not immediately obvious, but Mer clearly cares for each and every soul in the city, perhaps almost as much - or even more so - than John.

Or maybe Mer had always cared, but never let himself show it before now.

Or maybe she'd just never seen.

Jeannie doesn't know. Her brother is a bigger stranger to her than his alien boyfriend is and 'he's' telling no secrets.  
At least, not the ones that matter.

"Please," Mer says, "your dad worked on problems twenty times more complicated than this all the time and you helped him with those."

"With the maths."

"Even so, 'some' of the science must have stuck."

"Well, yeah, but nothing that does anyone any good."

"I think I'll be the judge of that."

It's John's turn to roll his eyes. But, "Look," he says resignedly, " it's not like I remember anything specific, like the formula for growing new control crystals or anything. But off the top my head...? Well, I remember that if you want to move backward or forward in time, you've got to do it in big increments - a couple of thousand years at a time, at least." He waves his hands in a decidedly Mer-like manner, "It's something to do with folding the fabric of space-time. I dunno. It was a long time ago and it's not like I ever really paid that much attention anyway."

Mer sets down the tablet he's holding. "Janus built a time machine?"

Jeannie thinks the more pressing question is why time travel had been the subject on the top of his head to begin with, but doesn't get the chance to say so.

"Yeah, but the Council made him take it apart after the first test flight. Why?"

"You really don't read any of the mission reports from Earth, do you?"

"No. I don't want to spoil the future seasons of 'Wormhole X-treme'."

"You don't want to-" he sputters. "You're impossible, you know that?"

John beams at Mer. "And yet somehow I manage to go on existing."

Her brother gives him a glare that could melt glass before turning huffily back to his tablet, muttering something under his breath that sounds particularly despairing of John's parentage, upbringing, and self-sacrificial habits.

"And on that note," Jeannie says into the silence that follows, "let's just say that this bridge pulls zero point energy from a parallel space-time without the fear of generating exotic particles that could destroy our universe."

"Works for me," John shrugs, trusting her explanation implicitly. "What's your testing plan?"

"We'll hold at ten percent of capacity for a couple of days, shut it off, and analyse the results. Depending on the readings, will try again at twenty-five percent afterwards and go from there."

"Cool. Well," he says, jabbing a thumb the door, "tell me how it turns out. I've gotta get back up to the Gate Room. Lieutenant Miles' team is about to head out and we're expecting the delegation from Latira sometime in the next hour. Caileon told them about our little Confederation and they want to sign up."

"That's great," she tells him.

"No. It's diplomats' work. And I am no diplomat."

"Well, I think you're doing just fine."

She swears she can hear Mer roll his eyes behind her. "Stop trying to butter him up. It's unnecessary: he already likes you. Now get back here and take a look at these readings, which are supposed to be the whole reason you're here."

Askance, "You already turned it on?"

"You would have noticed if you weren't being such a Chatty Kathy."

"God, you're such a child, Mer."

"Takes one to know one. Now get over here and start being useful or start packing your bags. Contrary to popular belief, this is a laboratory, not a social hall, and as someone with nine-tenths of a proper degree, you should at least have the integrity to treat it as such."

It's Jeannie's turn to roll her eyes, but she goes over to look at the numbers regardless. She'd hate for the universe to be destroyed because they were all too busy bickering.

* * *

Iohannes can feel his eyes glazing over. He's never been so bored in all his life - and that includes the time Ganos' teaching hologram had decided to lecture him on Second Wave idyllic poetry when he'd been about ten or so. That had been last class had ever attended with the hologram and, with luck, this delegation would be the last he'd ever have to deal with too.

The problem is, Teyla's the one who's supposed to be dealing with this - these issues of accession to the Confederation, - but ever since her people had moved off the mainland and onto New Athos, she's been spending a lot of time off-world helping them get settled. (Well, that, and getting to know one of her old childhood friends again. Not that she mentioned any of the time she was spending with Kanaan Cebrene, but, truthfully, he thinks Teyla's coming back far too chipper lately for a woman 'not' in a serious sexual relationship.)

"...would be greatly humbled," the Latiran High Ambassador seems to be winding down, "if your Apostolic Majesty would consider our application for entrance into your most illustrious Empire."

There's a pause. Iohannes blinks rapidly. It's probably time for him to say something. "Well, yes," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "we'll definitely think about it. But realise there are certain trade and, er, legal obligations Latira will have to agree to before you can become a full member of the 'Confederation'."

"Yes," the ambassador nods grimly. "Caileon Pero told us as much."

"Of course he did."

The ambassador looks at him curiously, as do his two very young, very attractive aides (who, it must be said, seem more intent with playing with their hair than actually aiding the ambassador with anything). "My Lord? Is that a problem?"

"No, no, it's just... Teyla is far better at explaining the details involved than I. For instance, your people's system of debt bondage would have to be dismantled before confederation could take place."

"But our-"

There's a knock at the door and a tentative, "Colonel."

"'Alleluia'," he mutters before turning thankfully towards the door. He'd almost welcome a Wraith attack at this point if it means cutting this meeting short, that's how dull the Latiran's are. "What is it, Chuck?"

"Doctors Beckett and McKay are requesting your presence in the Observation Room."

"The Observation Room?" What could possibly be going on that Rodney and Carson would want him to go there? Iohannes glances at the ceiling, but 'Lantis offers him nothing more than an amused snort, which he doubts she'd do if anyone is seriously hurt, but it's sometimes hard to tell with her. Atlantis loves all her inhabitants, but she cares for some decidedly more than others. It's one of her more annoying traits, especially when it comes time to go off-world, but one to which he's become long accustomed.

He turns his eyes back to Chuck, who somehow realises the city gave him no answers. Or, at least, no helpful ones.

"Yes sir. It sounds quite urgent too."

"Well, in that case..." Iohannes claps his hands together as he rises from his chair in the office he still rightfully considers Elizabeta's. "Sorry to cut this short, but I've got to run. Sergeant Campbell here will take care of getting you settled until Teyla can be brought back to go over the rest of the details with you."

He ducks out of the back door as quickly as he can to avoid their protestations and taps his earwig the moment he's out of mortal hearing. "Rodney, what's going on?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Iohannes snorts. He's a ten thousand year old Ascended being from a species more advanced than even Rodney can quite imagine: there's very little he would not believe at this point. "Try me."

"I'm having a hard time believing it myself, but I've put the entire matter bridge project on hold until we can get a handle on the situation."

"'What' situation?"

He doesn't mean to sound testy. If anything, he's grateful to be out of that awful meeting. It's just that he's so little patience these days - for the natives who call him Lord and pray so guilelessly to him; for the politicians who call him Majesty and see his Confederation as a means to their own ends; even for the Terrans, who still call him Colonel but want so much more from him than he can give. Iohannes wants answers, not games. He wants black and white, simple and clear, right and wrong, all laid out before him so he doesn't have to stop in the middle of signing paperwork that will essentially bind another eighty thousand souls to his fate and wonder if he's doing the right thing; if he's not making a huge mistake; if he's not walking down a path he cannot turn back from; if the moment he stepped down this road to 'Haeresis', however unwillingly, his fate was decided and he'd no choice but to become a monster no better than those that drove his people from their own galaxy billions of years ago and the Terrans are battling now. He's not god material. Hell, he's not even 'leader' material. He's a solider. He's meant to take orders, not to give them. He's middle-management material, nothing more - a 'tribunus', not a 'praetor' or 'prefectus'. He's certainly not a 'imperator'. But-

But Iohannes has to think he's doing the right thing. He 'is' doing the right thing. His people had been so afraid of the 'Haeretici' for so long that they'd allowed their fear to blind them to all the possibilities that playing god offered them. Like Hermiod had said, so long as he doesn't actually believe that he's a god, it's not really 'Haeresis', and Iohannes has been taking every chance he can get to remind those who wish to worship him that he's only Alteran. After all, Teyla started out believing him to be divine and look how she's come around. Give the rest some time, teach them a little bit of history and science, and, well, they'll stop worshiping him soon enough. And then they'll all see.

Then the others will see that he's been right all along. That he's been right to interfere with the Terrans. That he's been right to build this Confederation. That he can be a god without falling prey to 'Haeresis'. That he can stay the person he was before now that he's Ascended.

He 'is' right. Iohannes knows he is. He just has doubts sometimes, when the hour is late and Atlantis is almost as silent as she was during that awful, dark time between the Exodus and the Terran's arrival. In the light of day, when he can see all the good work he's doing, those nightly fears give way to certainty such as he's rarely known.

Yes, he's made the right choices. Even if it 'does' mean he has to listen to people like the Latiran Ambassador call him 'Majesty'. Or his temper is a bit short sometimes.

"Well, good news? The matter bridge works. It's shunting all the zero point energy straight into the empty ZedPM we got from the Genii and keeping all the exotic particles on the other side," Rodney says excitedly through the headset, apparently not noticing anything untoward in his voice. "Bad news? Apparently the parallel space-time we tapped into wasn't as uninhabited as we hoped. Turns out there's another Atlantis, even another Expedition, on the other side of the bridge and it's causing some serious repercussions in that universe. End of the universe type of repercussions, actually. Which sucks for them, but doesn't actually effect us in any way so far as I can tell."

He steps into the 'vectura.' "How d'you know? I thought the containment field you guys set up was meant to contain anything that might come through to our universe, messages included."

"Was that 'science' I just heard coming out of your mouth?" his 'amator' mocks. "Somebody, please, stop the presses."

"Shut up." Iohannes sputters, glad the hallway the 'vectura' has deposited him on is devoid of anyone who might see his flush.

"I can't. I feel like I should mark the calendar: 13 October, the day that John Sheppard finally admitted he knows some science."

"Shut up," he repeats, "and answer the question."

"Oh, fine: they managed to send an actual person across the bridge."

He whistles. That's some serious stuff. "Anyone we know?"

"I'd hope so - it's their version of me."

"Their Rodney?"

His Rodney's eye roll is audible. "Get your mind out the gutter, John."

"Please," he snorts. "Just because he's some universe's Rodney McKay doesn't mean he's you, Rodney. Why would I want to be with him if he's not you?"

There's a quiet, "Oh," and a pause before Rodney gets on with his explanation. "Anyway," he says with the air of someone trying to shake off a shock, "their me came here with some kind of warning and only wants to talk to - and I quote - 'whoever's in charge around here' before he'll tell us anything more than the fact that we're apparently destroying their universe."

"I'm almost at the Observation Room now."

"Good. I'll meet you at the door."

* * *

Privately, Jeannie is trying to decide where on the continuum of strangeness this particular incident falls. The sudden appearance of her brother's double from an alternate reality is certainly stranger than the fact that he lives and works in a different galaxy, but less strange than the fact his boyfriend his a ten thousand year old alien. That much is obvious. The problem, however, is one of degree, and though she supposes it doesn't really matter, it helps restore some sense of control to the situation.

From her position on the balcony, she sees the door to the Observation Room below open and John walk through. Quickly, she leans over and presses the speaker controls.

"Hey Rodney," she hears him say, as casual as casual can be.

"Hi," her brother's doppelgänger replies, clearly confused.

"You don't know who I am, d'you?"

"Not a clue."

Jeannie's heart breaks a little at this news. This might not be 'her' Mer, but he's still some version of her brother and she can't imagine any that might stand a chance of being happy without some version of John in his life.

"I suspected as much. If some version of me was still around in your universe, he'd be here right now, not you, that's for sure."

"Who are you anyway?"

"The exact details aren't important," John says, spinning one of the chairs around so that it's back faces the other Mer before straddling it. "But people call me Colonel Sheppard. I'm the acting Head of the Atlantis Expedition."

The other Mer's head falls. "Then Elizabeth is dead in this universe too."

"For about two months now." He somehow manages to keep all the pain he knows he feels on the subject out of his voice, making Doctor Weir's death seem like nothing more than a particularly notable statistic. Not for the first time, it makes Jeannie wonder how much she actually knows about John even now that she's been read on to the truth about what he really is.

If anyone really knows.

"It's been nearly a year on our end. She and several others were captured by the Genii during Ladon Radhim's coup. She was able to negotiate for their release, but died in an attack on the base before she could return through the Gate herself."

"Ladon's coup was peaceful here."

"That's something, at least."

"So who's in charge of 'Lantis where you're from if it's not Elizabeta? Colonel Sumner? Colonel Caldwell?"

"Richard Woolsey, actually. Sumner took over after we first encountered the Wraith, but he died trying to break the siege on our Atlantis that happened about a year-and-a-half ago. Elizabeth was back in charge after that, but after she died the reigns fell to me." He sighs wearily. "Luckily we finally made contact with Earth five months ago. The IOA put Woolsey in charge then. The man's an utter buffoon, but he knows his job and, frankly, I'd rather it be him in the hot seat than me."

Real sympathy creeps onto John's carefully calculated mask of breezy indifference. "Can't say I blame you. The amount of paperwork alone this place somehow manages to generate is insane."

"That's true in every universe, I'd imagine."

"Probably. Which I guess brings us back to the original question of: what on Lantea are you doing here?"

"As I told me - your version of me," the other Mer says, crossing his arms, "'your' little matter bridge just so happens to be tearing 'my' universe apart."

"Yeah, funnily enough, I got that part," the Colonel says dryly, slipping back into his lackadaisical facade. "But it's a lot easier to send a message across universes than it is to send a full-grown person. Which begs the other question of: why 'else' are you here?"

Jeannie blinks. It's obvious that the only reason this Mer is here is to stop them from destroying his universe. What other reason 'could' he have for being here? Shouldn't that be enough?

"I told you-"

"A sad story," John finishes for him, rapping his knuckles against the metal back of his chair. "But, y'see, I know my Rodney. Very well, in fact. And I figure that, no matter what universe a Rodney McKay originates from, some things are going to be the same across the board. Like the whole citrus thing. And fact that he would never take on a mission like this unless, one, there was some way for him to get back and, two, something far more valuable than the safety of a single universe at stake."

The amiable smile the alternate Mer has been wearing since his arrival slides right off his face. He recrosses his arms on his chest and seems to sink into himself. Guiltily. Nervously. Worriedly.

"I thought so. What is it?" he asks gently, as if this Rodney were some skittish animal and not a danger to Atlantis - something, Jeannie's come to discover, John usually would have dealt with far more definitively by now. "You figured that building this bridge meant that we had ZPMs to spare? 'Cause, from the sound of things, your guys' universe hasn't been as lucky as ours. Let me guess: your SG-1 didn't find the ZPM in Egypt, did they? And you definitely don't have the ATLAS Device to recharge the ones you found in the city."

The other Mer, quite white now, shakes his head, as if he doesn't quite trust himself to speak.

"Don't worry," John smiles at him - and it's a warms smile. A genuine smile. One that reaches his eyes and brightens his whole face. "I'm not going to throw you in the brig or anything. If it were my Atlantis, I'd probably have tried the exact same thing.

"So, tell you what, I'm going to get my Rodney to give you the plans for our ATLAS Device before we send you back where you belong. But, fair warning, you try anything that might hurt this Atlantis and it won't matter that you're someone's version of Rodney McKay. I 'will' stop you, by whatever means necessary."

The threat doesn't seem to phase this Mer as much as the offer of help. "Why? Why are you doing this? Why would you help me?"

John shrugs. "'Cause. You're trying to save Atlantis. I can understand that. I've done a lot a stupid things trying to save mine. Maybe not as stupid as squeezing my way through to a parallel universe, but up there." He rises from his chair and toes it back into place. "Nice talking with you."

And, without further ado, John walks out, possibly the only one watching who has the slightest idea what just happened.

* * *

"This is weird."

"Is it?"

Rodney gives him a disgruntled look. "You cannot possibly tell me that your whole über-liberal, ultra-advanced alien upbringing prepared you to encounter copies of people you know from alternate universes."

"Well, no-"

Snapping his fingers, "See," he interrupts. "Exactly. It's weird."

Iohannes closes the copy of 'The Journal of Number Theory' he's been paging through and places it in his lap, using a finger to hold his place. "But he's not your copy, Rodney. He's just a guy who's been through a lot of the same things you have, but who is essentially a different person."

"We have the same DNA. The same schooling. The exact same life history until we stepped foot on Atlantis - and believe you me, we compared notes extensively while you've been up here, ordering bullets and potatoes for the Expedition, or whatever it is you do when you lock yourself away in your office up here. The first difference we found is that, where 'I' found you half-dead in the Control Chair, 'he' found a city already on the surface, ZedPMs completely drained."

"So I heard."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"That his Atlantis is probably dead? Of course it does." The very idea of it makes him sick to his stomach, in ways that are less lunch-related than they are the all-encompassing need to use his Ascended powers to tear a hole between universes and fix whatever it is that went wrong in that one. "But there's nothing I can do about it," he tells himself, despite the fact that it may very well be a lie. "I can only control the things that I can control - and I'm barely treading water as is trying to stay on top of all of it. I just have to hope that whatever's left of her is being taken care of by whoever's there to do so. For all I know, she was never sentient in that universe at all, so I never became 'pastor', which is why I didn't stay."

"You do realise that you're probably dead in that universe."

"I lead a dangerous life. I'm probably dead in a lot of universes."

"Well, that's reassuring," Rodney huffs, giving up the pretence of still paying any attention to his tablet at all and tossing it on the coffee table. He sags against the couch, sliding towards Iohannes until their shoulders press together.

The touch is grounding. He leans into it gladly. "It wasn't supposed to be."

Rodney's fingers drum against the sliver of cushion between their legs. "You know, most the time I really don't care that you're an Ancient, but something you're just so... alien."

"You're the alien," he says, letting his left hand slip of his thigh and tangle with Rodney's right.

"Speaking of aliens... We've still not finished season five of 'Wormhole X-treme' yet, and I'm pretty sure the one where I show up is coming up soon."

"So you're okay with someone playing you on TV, but not with your real life duplicate from an alternate universe showing up? I gotta tell you, Rodney, that's kinda messed up."

"No, the fact that 'you' think it's okay is messed up. What you should be thinking about is how awesome it is they got that guy from the new 'Battlestar Galactica' to play me, and who they might get to play you if they can convince the networks to do an Atlantis spin-off."

"I dunno. Watching actors playing us on TV? 'That' would be weird."

"Your definition of weird is what's weird.," Rodney says, squeezing his hand for a second before sliding off the couch. "So, what do you say? Want to see if we can make it to the me-episode before we're interrupted?"

"D'you even have to ask?"

* * *

"So how does this work?" John asks, eying the setup wearily. It quite literally looks like one of those children's toys one always sees in science museums - the plasma lamps that cause everyone's hair to stand on end when they touch it - hooked up to about nine miles of wire and no less than a hundred sensors, controls, and monitors.

Jeannie chews her lower lip nervously. She doesn't like this. She doesn't like this at all.

Mer - her Mer - rubs his hands together eagerly. "It's simple. We need to reverse the bridge long enough to send the other me back through and then close it down completely. The problem is that both reversing and shutting off the bridge is going to need massive amounts of energy, the sort which border on the edge of what the ZedPMs are able to provide. And, while we do have the ATLAS Device, I don't want to run down a ZedPM unless we have no other choice, just in case something goes wrong.

"But," he adds, jabbing a finger John's way, "we have Your Ascended-ness, who is essentially a self-replenishing seven exavolt battery."

"Gee, thanks Rodney."

"An incredibly attractive seven exavolt battery? What do you want? It's the truth. You can provide more immediate power than the ZedPM can and you can provide additional monitoring to the system. And all you've got to do is place your hands on this thing here and pour a little bit of power into it."

"Just?" Jeannie scoffs, stepping forward, no longer able to hold her tongue. "Maybe I'm just the newbie here, but to me it seems like there's a more than significant chance that John could get pulled into the other universe if he tries this."

"A zero point zero zero three chance. Hardly significant at all."

"If I understand this correctly - and correct me if I don't, - all this power John has access to is part of John himself - it's part of this whole Ascension business, which I still don't understand. So instead of being powering this setup with zero point energy, we're going to be powering it with straight up pieces of John, meaning that the danger is closer to thirty percent he's going to get pulled into the other universe, if not sixty."

"Huh," John says. "Well, that doesn't sound so bad."

She looks at him askance. "Sixty percent chance of being sucked into an alternate universe doesn't sound so bad to you?"

John shrugs. "We've tackled worse odds."

It's true too. Mer's not gone into great detail about everything that's happened since he came to Atlantis, but his friend (friend!) Carson had filled her in as best he could. From Wraith sieges to Replicator attacks, they 'had' faced worse odds than this, but Jeannie sees no reason to push their luck.

"You're insane," the other Mer announces.

The Colonel shrugs again. "That's not a possibility I've dicounted yet."

Her Mer hits him over the back of the head. "You're a moron, that's what you are. Now can we get this show on the road? Every second we waste here is another second an alternate Atlantis is closer to destruction."

"And it's official," John snorts. "The Alteran propensity for melodramatics 'is' contagious."

"And who's fault is that, hmmm?"

John raises one eyebrow as if to say, "Touché."

Jeannie coughs less than discreetly.

Her Mer's hands rub together again. "Yes, yes, show on the road. John, if you don't mind? And other me, if you'd just get into place..."

The alternate Mer steps into the chamber.

John grasps the plasma lamp-like device gently hands, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Here goes nothing," under his breath.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then a low-pitched tone fills the room, quietly at first and then raising in pitch and intensity as a pure, impossibly white light pours from John's hands and fills the plasma lamp. The bars on the exterior of the bridge chamber start to spin and, before long, have gained such speed that Jeannie cannot make out the path of any individual bar. Instead, they seem to blur into a single wall of silvery, white-hot metal.

The light pulses around the chamber. Once. Twice. Three times. The bars whirl to a stop as the light fades, but the tone remains, now a high-pitched whine that is rising out of the range of human hearing.

Jeannie rubs her ears and catches Mer doing the same as he checks the chamber: His alternate is gone. All the sensor readings indicate the bridge is closed.

She turns to check on John-

-who has fallen to his knees, clutching at his ears.

"John," she calls, but it's obvious he cannot her when he starts when she appears at his side.

Meer's next to her in an instant. "John," he says, hands flying to his boyfriend's shoulders. "John? What happened? Are you alright? 'Es valens? Quid accidit?'"

John blinks rabidly, but even after he stops his eyes seem oddly unable to focus.

"'Iohannes, me paenitent, puto esse valens. Non est periculum.'"

The Ancient's eyes dart to Mer, possibly because he recognises his own language, but more likely because it's Mer. And then, oddly enough, he smiles. "I'm fine," he says, lowering his hands. They come away covered in blood, but a quick second later it disappears, as does the trickle of it that had been coming out of both his ears. "It's just that 'Lantis appears to be a 'meretrix' in every universe."

"You talked to the other universe's Atlantis?"

"More like she shouted really loud in hopes I'd hear."

"What did she say?"

John climbs to his feet. "She told me what happened to my people in her universe; about what happened to their version of me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Alii' means 'Others'. (Interestingly enough, Alteran literally means "The Others", which makes you wonder about a species that would chose to call themselves that.) The Latirans are part of the Coalition in the episode of the same name.  
> My various speculations for the AJ 'version of 'Wormhole X-treme' can be found [here](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/91107.html%22). According to it, S6 of "SG1" would currently be on air.  
> The Latin Rodney uses at the end is firstly "Are you alright? What happened?" and "I'm sorry, I thought you'd be alright. There was no risk."


	16. Iudex, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I had intended to reach before shipping off; obviously, that didn't happen.   
> Also, this is the last completed story I wrote while in SEPS; it is three parts, the other two of which are longer than this installment. I'm not sure if it works - transcribing it I was a little unhappy with how it turned out - but I'll let you be the judge of that.  
> "Iudex" means "Judge" in Latin. "Diabali" are "Devils" or "Slanderers". You might also find the [family tree](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/202146.html) helpful for this story; it even has pictures.

Iohannes is happy.

Yes, he's still Ascended and likely to be for the next thirty thousand years, without hope of appeal. Yes, he's still acting Head of the Expedition while the IOA searches for someone fill the void Elizabeta's death has left. Yes, he is a god to the people of no less than fifty-seven planets and king to seventeen, but Iohannes is happy. Beyond happy even, and possibly crossing over the line into actual glee. Because the thing is, he and Rodney have been living together for eight weeks now without major incident, which is about seven weeks longer than he had ever dared hope. They are happy together, the sex is beyond amazing, and Rodney was right, a bigger bed 'does' make all the difference.

It's more than that, though (though that is a large part of it). Because, while he 'is' still doing Elizabeta's job, he's finally settled into it. He'd still rather someone else be doing it (that someone preferably being Elizabeta), but he knows the ins and outs of the position now and, with the help of the executive assistants 'Daedalus' dropped off two weeks ago, it's become easier still. And while the god-thing still troubles him, Iohannes has got to admit that it - and the kingship - have made things a lot easier for the Expedition. Trade negotiations and first contacts have gone a lot smoother since the Confederation was founded. And if it usually means that the high holy of each new planet they come across wants to rub elbows with him at some point in the process, well, he's the only one made uncomfortable by it. (Well, not exactly uncomfortable. It's just hard to ignore all the faith coming his way, especially when the faithful are right in front of him, but even though he's not using any of it, the flood of it makes him headier than a magnum of wine.)

So he's good. He's happy. He's easily the best he's ever been. The only thing that would make Iohannes better is if Rodney were here instead of on 'Daedalus,' getting into place for the first trial of his Intergalactic Gate Bridge, which even he has to admit is kind of important. Besides, it's only three weeks out of their lives and today is the day of the actual test, so they'll at least be able to check in.

"Are you humming, sir?"

Iohannes looks up, surprised, from the last of the requisition orders he's trying to finish up before the test actually starts, so he can send them with everything else to the SGC. It's going to take them a while to put gather all the materials they'll need to build a new 'linter' and he'd like to get that ball rolling as soon as possible. "No?"

Lorne smiles disbelievingly at him and crosses the threshold into his (Elizabeta's) office. "You can't lie to me, Sir. 'Lantis has done almost nothing lately but talk about how glad she is to see you happy."

"'Lantis is a liar and a degenerate gossip. You shouldn't believe a word she says."

"Funny enough, she says the same thing about you, Sir."

"Now 'that' is an outright lie. I have 'never' once gossiped in my life." Or hummed. Iohannes had learned long ago it was best to leave the music in Atlantis' far more capable hands.

"You were telling me about Miss Emmagen and her gentleman friend just the other day," the Major says dryly.

He jabs a finger at his fellow 'pastor'. "First off, that wasn't gossip. It was a simple sharing of information you might find useful as part of your debriefing after Rory's shakedown cruise."

"Sounds like gossip to me, Sir," Lorne chuckles, perching on the edge of one of the closer armchairs.

"And secondly," he says loudly, ignoring this comment, "what kind of person uses the phrase 'gentleman friend'? I'm ten thousand years old and even 'I' think that's hopelessly outdated."

Lorne snorts. "Sir, you're barely older than I am when you take your time in stasis out of the equation."

"And yet my father is your five hundred thirty-first great-grandfather, so..."

"Five hundred thirty-first, huh? How do you know that - for sure, I mean?"

"I just do," Iohannes shrugs. He 'just knows' a lot of things. Like the fact that Father had a half-Terran son called Davidus Constantín four years after the Exodus with a Pictish woman named Màel Muire, and that this son had had four children of his own. It's long enough ago that all Terrans contain some of Father's bloodline, some more so than others. He 'remembers' other things too: when and how Father died and the names of the others who became Abominations like Ganos and Moros, amongst other things. It scares Iohannes to 'remember' so much that he has no rightful way of ever learning and he tries to forget it all as much as possible. Such knowledge is beyond the realm of mortals and he will have no part in it if he can help it.

Lorne shakes his head. "You know all that, but you didn't notice you were humming?"

"Was there something you wanted, Major? he asks baldly, leaning back in his chair and tucking his arms behind his head.

"Just to see if I was clear to start the preflight for the Gate Bridge trial."

"Yeah, you're good. I just wish I was going in your place."

"If you want, there's still time..."

"No," he sighs. "The IOA would eat me alive if I tried. You go. Enjoy your time on Terra. Take some time off. See your family. Have some fun, if they'll let you. Just be ready to take Rory out on another cruise when you get back - 'Daedalus' wasn't able to swing by Asuras on her way in because of the test's timetable and I'm not too comfortable not knowing what those 'diaboli' are getting up to at all times.

"You're not the only one who feels that way." Lorne pauses as he turns to go. "It 'is' good to see you so happy, Sir."

"I'm always happy, Major."

"Of course, Sir. Whatever you say."

* * *

He's waiting in the jumper bay when Lorne gets back, eager to hear how the Gate Bridge test went. It's obvious it worked - the Major would have been back long before if that was the case - but Iohannes wants to know. Terran means nothing to him, but the Gate Bridge is a source of equipment, personnel, and goods he can use to build his Confederation.

Lorne's beaming at him when the hatch opens, a bag slung over one shoulder. "Colonel."

"Major," he responds, raising an eyebrow at the other man's enthusiasm. Yes, Lorne's been gone nearly a day, but even 'he' doesn't get homesick that fast. Unless his own unusual level of happiness is rubbing off on Atlantis and, thus, Lorne, in which case he really, really needs to do something about that before it becomes something awkward for them to worry about.

"Great news, Sir."

"The Bridge works? I'm afraid it's kinda obvious, Major."

"No, more than that." He steps - skips - out of the jumper. Yes, he's definitely going to need to talk to 'Lantis about the possibilities of emotional transference between 'pastores'. It had never been a problem with him and Nicolaa, but, then again, they'd usually been on the same level, not to mention she hadn't had the same upgraded nanoids Father had given Iohannes - and had been implanted in Lorne. "Doctor McKay found something."

"In the middle of the void?" Now that 'is' something to get excited about. They call it a void for a reason. Finding anything at all in it is rather like, well, finding him alive and unaged after so many millennia in stasis: not impossible, but close enough to it that it might as well be.

Nodding, "A ship, going at point nine nine nine percent the speed of light." Lorne clearly expects this to mean something to him.

"Wraith?" Iohannes asks, though he's fairly certain the other 'pastor' wouldn't be so happy about a hive ship hurtling towards Avalon. He can't think of anyone else in Pegasus capable of spaceflight that it could possibly be - unless the 'linter' wasn't coming from Pegasus.

Either way, as impressive as that kind of speed is, it's not very useful. The three million lightyear trip between galaxies would still take three million years and change of real time. Even taking relativity into account that would still be a hundred thirty-four thousand years or so ship time, which is well beyond any species' lifetime - except for maybe the Wraith, who have the ability to hibernate for centuries at a time, or the Asgard, who could always transfer their consciousness to new clone bodies.

Again, possible, but not very useful. Even he knows that.

Lorne shakes his head, his smile, if possible, growing wider. (It's starting to become disconcerting. Perhaps he needs to radio Carson in case whatever's causing this odd behaviour is contagious.) "Ancient."

Iohannes' heart stutters to a stop. Surely he's misunderstood, or his translation matrix is faulty, or something. The 'are' no more 'Alteran' lintres. If there were, he'd know about it, the same way he knows about Lorne's relation to himself. He is Ascended. He would know, even if knowing was the last thing he wanted. "You mean 'ancient' as in 'old', right?"

"I mean 'Ancient' as in: we found the warship 'Tria' out in dark space and Colonel Caldwell is working to bring the surviving crew back to Atlantis as we speak." The Major looks impossibly pleased with himself, as if the news he brings is something to be celebrated.

/Breathe, 'pastor',/ 'Lantis reminds him, which is the only thing that what finally reminds him that he's lost control of his cardiopulmonary system.

He closes his eyes and 'concentrates' for a long moment, trying to remember everything Carson ever told him about his heart, his lungs. It's hard to focus on something so trivial, especially when the universe is falling down around him, but Iohannes forces himself to regain control.

/In, one two three. Out, one two three,/ the city whispers in his mind. /Forget everything else. Just stay with us and breathe: In, one two three. Out, one two three./

In, one two three.

Out, one two three.

When Iohannes opens his eyes at last, he finds Lorne regarding him worriedly (although his concern doesn't seem to have had any effect on the grin he's still sporting. Maybe he 'should' still call Carson, though for which one of them he's no longer sure.) It's obvious the Major still thinks this is a good thing. It's obvious he thinks this is the best news Iohannes could ever hope to hear - that any of them could ever hope to hear.

He swallows, concentrating on the movement to make sure he does it right. "I'm sorry," he says a long last, "but did you say 'Tria'?"

* * *

Two days. Iohannes has had two days to prepare for the end of the universe as he knows it. He's spent most that time ordering anybody with jobs not vital to the safety and security of the Expedition to paint, clean, and 'beautify' as many of the inhabitable parts of Atlantis as possible, to 'Lantis' never-ending joy and the Marines' everlasting irritation. It's the only thing he can think to do to prepare for what's coming short of placing some M2 Brownings and a couple dozen mortars in the Gate Room, which he rather thinks wouldn't have gone over any better.

A fight is coming for control of the city, he knew that the moment he read the survivor list 'Daedalus' transmitted ahead over subspace, and he will not go down easily. Atlantis is 'his' and no other's. He has been her friend, her confidante, her 'pastor' since he was five years old. She has been his entire life. No one, least of all Danielia Ival Helia Navarcha, will take her from him.

'Tria'! Of all the ships to encounter travelling through the void between galaxies, 'Tria'! He'd thought she'd been destroyed during the Battle of Tirianus - Iohannes had 'seen' her fly apart as she tried to open a hyperspace window-

-or, at least, he'd thought he had. He'd been injured and suffering the beginnings of G-LOC at the time, trying to slow Tirianus' fall into the Lantean Ocean. He could have been mistaken. Drowning probably hadn't helped his memory too much either.

But that had been seven years before the Exodus and the others had thought 'Tria' to be lost as well. Meaning that either, one, 'Tria' was so damaged she couldn't let Atlantis know she hadn't been destroyed or, two, 'Tria' hadn't wanted anyone to know she'd survived.

With any other battleship, with any other 'navarchus', Iohannes wouldn't think twice about it. But Father's first cousin, Danielia Ival Helia Navarcha, had captained that 'linter'. Danielia, like her Father, Elernus Ival Asuras Rector, had always thought that the ends justified the means, especially when it came to war. She had taught him how to pilot a jumper when he was seven, not because she knew that Iohannes had always wanted to fly and had wanted to do something nice for him but because she wanted to use him to get closer to Father-

-Father, who was 'Rector' and thus the only one who could recreate the Asurans, which had always been her self-proclaimed goal. Luckily, hers were the only whiles Father had never fallen for, and she'd never succeeded in convincing him to revisit their fathers' project, however much she thought it might have ended the Wraith War once and for al.

But 'Tria', of all 'lintres'! 'Tria'! If had been 'Fessona' or 'Pellona', Iohannes could have understood - they, at least, had been around during the Exodus. It would have made some sense for one of them to have tried to cross the void between Pegasus and Avalon. But 'Tria' had no reason to go to Terra. They'd no reason to even 'think' about that place, whose use as a sanctuary they didn't start giving serious thought to until the final year of the war.

Iohannes has a bad, bad feeling about all of this.

They should be here any minute.

He leaves Elizabeta's office - his office - and heads down the Gate Room stairs. The whole Expedition seems to be crowded excitedly on the balconies and around the edges of the lower level, thinking like the naive little children they are that this can end well.

"So, got any family on this boat, Sheppard?" Ronon asks when he reaches the bottom of the steps, spinning his 'Hamaxobii' gun around his finger.

"A first cousin once removed. Her wife. The rest are a little more distant than that."

"You gonna be upset if I shoot any of them?"

Iohannes raises an eyebrow. "You think this is going to turn into a shooting match?"

"They abandoned their brothers to the Wraith," Ronon says pointedly.

"Yeah. I don't trust them either," he admits. He's said as much a thousand times, but it's never meant this much before. He's never thought there were any left not to trust before now.

"Good."

"I-"

Iohannes' radio crackles to life.

"Atlantis, this is Daedalus. We're ready to transport the Ancient delegation."

He lets out a long breath he does not need and which helps steady him even less. "Go ahead, Daedalus. Let's get this over with."

And then they're here.


	17. Iudex, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [family tree](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/202146.html) will continue to come in helpful in this chappie. 
> 
> Just as an FYI, though, Danielia IS Captain Helia from "The Return." Danielia is just her first name - her praenomen - whereas Helia is her nickname - her cognomen. (It's like with Trebal from "Aurora" - Trebal is her cognomen, Alianora is her praenomen - or Iohannes - Iohannes is his praenomen, Licinus his cognomen.)

"Hello, Danielia," John says negligently, his words painfully loud in the Gate Room's restive silence. "Long time, no see."

The Captain - who'd introduced herself to Rodney as Helia - inclines her head with a motion barely large enough to be called a nod, the motion only perceptible at all because of her mass of dark blonde curls. "You as well, Licinus. I had been under the impression that you had died when Tirianus Fell.

"I survived," he shrugs. "I'm a little surprised you did, though, what with your ship flying apart as it entered that hyperspace window."

"'Tria' was heavily damaged in the battle, particularly our engine compartment. We were unable to repair our hyperdrive after the call for evacuation was given, but we were able to boost our sub-light engines to within one thousandth of a percent of the speed of light. Between the effects of relativity and our stasis pods, we," she gestures at the dozen or so crewmen 'Daedalus' has beamed down with them, "were able to survive for far longer than we should have."

"Same here, for the stasis at least." John hands slide twitchily from his hips into his front pockets, as if he's trying his best to keep this casual and overcompensating just a little too much. "It's been ten thousand, two hundred twelve years. Did they tell you?"

"Yes, although it is quite difficult to believe."

"You get used to it," John shrugs, like that's just something people do. "Things are a little more undeveloped than you're going to be used to, but the Terrans have 'lintres' and microprocessors and nuclear fission. The Asgard regard them as the Fifth Race of the old Alliance. They're not completely backward."

Rodney bristles at this. Sure, they might not be up to Ancient levels of technology, but they're not 'undeveloped' by any means. Like John said, they've computers and nuclear power and 304s. They've defeated the Replicators (the Milky Way versions, at least) and the goa'uld. They're holding their own against the Wraith and the Ori. They may not be Ancients, but they're certainly not primitive.

He's about to remind John of this fact right then, but doesn't only because of the look that John gives him - one of the kind John usually reserves for when they're off-world and about to risk their necks on some hair-brained scheme that has about zero percent chance of success and a hundred percent chance of getting at least one of them maimed or killed; the kind that says 'trust me, I'll keep us safe'.

Well, 'that' doesn't bode well.

"I would rather not," she says brusquely.

"Too bad. The Terrans are family. They're here to stay."

"Family," Helia - Daniela - snorts. "They are Descendants. They have no place here-"

John bristles, his carefully maintained air of aloofness falling as his eyes go hard and his hands start twitching back towards his Colt. "Father had a half-Terran son after the Exodus. They are all descended from him. That makes them your cousins and my nephews."

"They have no place here," she repeats tersely.

The navigator - a plain-looking man with close cropped, dark hair and a forgettable face - steps to stand in front of his captain. "And neither do you."

"Nobody asked you, Ulixes," John snaps, jaw twitching.

Rodney takes the opportunity to start edging towards Teyla and Halling, who are standing not far away, on the lower level by the side doors.

"They should have. After all, the last anybody listened to you, twelve 'lintres' and three thousand Alterans died."

"Maybe if some people hadn't run away-"

"We ran away? What about you, Licinus?" the navigator - Ulixes Nicon Heres he remember now - accuses, growing more enraged with each word-

-and he's not the only one. John's eyes are growing colder, harder, paler while the shadows subtly darken around him. "That was completely different."

"Is it? How is it that 'you', the Abomination, managed to survive when the others - the 'real' - Alterans - did not?"

"Because 'I' didn't abandon Atlantis," he contends loudly, striding forward. "'I' stayed with her. 'I' protected her ten thousand years in the darkness and the silence while you and everyone else left her to rot."

"Who was protecting her-?"

"Enough!" Helia shouts, determined to break up the argument but apparently surprised by her own vehemence. "This bickering is pointless. As highest ranking member of the Lantean Guard remaining, I assume control of Atlantis and its population. You will contact the one who speaks for the Terrans, Licinus; it is time for your bets to go home."

John moves forward still, stopping only when he's standing half a foot away from the captain of the 'Tria'. "You've been gone a long time, cousin. I am 'legatus' now, and 'praefectus'. Atlantis is, as she's always been, mine."

"I do not recognise your authority."

"But they do," he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the various Expedition members watching uneasily behind him - to include several heavily-armed Marines and Ronon, all of whom are fingering their weapons.

Helia raises an eyebrow, and, yes, now Rodney can see it. She and John are definitely related. They've got each other's same worst qualities. The same intractableness. The same determination to do whatever is necessary to reach their objectives.

There is no way this can end well.

"Do you really want to risk the lives of your pets in battle against us, Licinus?"

"They are not pets," John insists, bringing his hands back to his hips. "They have bled for this city. Some if them have died for it. They have more right to be here than you do."

"Is that so?" Helia asks archly, moving forward until not more than half-an-inch remains between them. "Well then, 'cousin', let me tell 'you' something: I have listened to what these Descendants have whispered when they thought we could not hear. I know what sort of demon you are: a 'schimaticus' and a fraud, no better than the 'Haeretici' who drove us from our home galaxy so many millennia ago. Your word means nothing. If you had any decency, you would kill yourself now and spare the universe the pain of your 'Haeresis'."

John's eyes, already flinty, turn pure white and begin to glow with their own bright, internal light that casts no shadows. The light fixtures nearest to him burst and show the Ancients with sparks. He appears shrouded in darkness and, for the first time in along while, Rodney feels a stab of fear over what his 'amator' has become.

"I have done what I've had to do to keep Atlantis safe."

"Funny how that seems to have left you in a position of unquestioned power," the navigator, Ulixes, snorts, hands going towards the butt of his gun.

The shadows deepen still further. It should be impossible to make out what's happening in the centre of the Gate Room but, somehow, it's not. It's only around John they're truly deep. It's only around John they hide anything at all.

"I never asked for this. I never asked for any of this."

"Well, my lord," Ulixes remarks, voice dripping with sarcasm, "looks like you did not refuse it either."

"Maybe not, but the universe changed while we were sleeping, Ulixes. The old Alliance is broken. The Nox and the Furlings are dead. The Asgard are dying. Our Descendants in Avalon were enslaved for millennia by the goa'uld parasites we ignored, and those that finally broke the chains came here and are helping to fight the monsters 'we' created. The Terrans are here to stay. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"I will not bow to Descendants," Ulixes announces duly, unholstering his gun, "or their false gods."

Ulixes draws his gun, but by the time it clears the holster John has already fired, as have Ronon and Lorne, and the navigator is dead before he hits the Gate Room floor.

The room erupts in noise.

A handful of other Ancients reach for their weapons, as do the few Marines without P90s currently in their hands, but Captain Helia throws up her arms. "Enough!"

The whole room falls silent.

John points his gun at her. "Family or not, Daneilia, I've got no problem shooting you either. If it comes to that."

"You have made your point," she bites out stiffly. "You are 'praefectus'. I will not challenge that."

John lets his Colt point towards the floor. "Thank you," he says so softly that Rodney's not sure he actually heard him at all.

"But," she insists, unwilling to back down quietly, "Atlantis is 'our' home. We will not allow ourselves to be replaced by these... interlopers."

John beams at her. The glow fades from his eyes and the lighting overhead returns to normal. "I knew you'd come around."

* * *

He watches John pace the perimeter of their living room.

"She's planning something."

"Who? Helia?"

"Danielia," he insists as he passes behind the couch Rodney is currently sprawled across. "Her name is Danielia Ival Helia Navarcha and until she stops calling me by my stupid 'cognomen', I won't call her by hers."

Rodney sits up a little. "This is probably rhetorical, but you had a really screwed up childhood, didn't you?"

"My childhood was just fine, thank you very much."

"The fact that you think that say everything."

His 'amator' pauses just long enough to shoot him a dark look. "Can we leave your opinion of Father out of this for the moment and get back to the issue at hand?"

"Which is what? That your cousin screwed you over too?"

"Rodney."

He slumps back onto cushions. He'd been lured into this conversation with promises of popcorn and 'Wormhole X-treme'. He feels vaguely betrayed. He'd wanted a chance to unwind after a day like today too. "Fine. Helia. Go on."

"Thank you," John says with false primness.

"No wonder people think you're the woman in this relationship," he mutters, still slightly bitter.

"I've still got no idea what that's supposed to mean."

"You say that," Rodney tells him, rolling his eyes at the shadows the city lights are casting on the ceiling, "but you've been around us Earthlings for two-and-a-half years now. You know 'Star Trek' and Tolstoy and Led Zeppelin and the entire Marvel universe. You can't tell me you've not managed to pick up a couple social customs along the way."

Tiredly, "Not the time, Rodney."

He waves an impatient hand. "Fine, fine. Get back to your familial crisis."

"Y'know, you could at least 'pretend' to take his seriously."

"I'm sorry, but it's hard to take it seriously when you claim each and every other Ancient we encounter is out to bring about the downfall of the Expedition."

"Well, it's true," he says with an audible pout.

Dryly, "It's paranoia."

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," John insists, passing out of view behind Rodney's couch again.

"See! Earth pop culture, right there. You only pull out the 'oh, I'm a helpless alien' card when it suits you."

"Can we 'please'," he responds, pacing back into view, "get back to the point of this conversation?"

"Which is what? How to get rid of your prodigal cousin and her merry band of men?" Rodney asks, only half-seriously. Regardless of what John said earlier - regardless of what he'd done to the 'Tria's' navigator - Helia is still family, and that means a lot to him.

"Yes."

Rodney rolls his eyes and pushes himself into a sitting position. It looks like there's not going to be any 'Wormhole X-treme' tonight. "Yes, because that worked out so well with Michael."

John slaps him on the back of his head when next he passes.

"Hey! No need to resort to violence."

"Are you going to help me out or not? You don't know Danielia like I do. She's never had the same regard for non-Alteran life that I do. She'd kill you all herself if she thought it would bring about the end of the Wraith and not think twice about it."

Rodney sighs, rubbing the back of his head. Though he doesn't mean to, John's stronger than he was before. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Not counting your time in stasis, it's still been what? Over a decade since you've seen her? Maybe she's changed."

"People don't just 'stop' being genocidal psychopaths, Rodney," he says dryly.

"I spent two days with her on the 'Daedalus'. She seemed perfectly normal to me - you know, for an Ancient."

"Thus my use of the world 'psychopath'," John says more dryly still.

"Even assuming that's true-"

"Which it is."

"-then she's bound to be pragmatic as well. She's not going to do anything while you're in charge of the city, and it's not like she can stage a coup with you being all Ascended and all."

John stops pacing and sinks onto the couch next to him. "No, but she can hurt you."

Annoyed now, "One of these days, John, you're going to have to realise that I can actually take care of myself."

"I know you can," he admits in a low breath. "I do, but... Danielia is nothing like anything you've ever seen."

"You said that about the Replicators."

"Her father created them."

"And by that logic," Rodney points out, "you should be just as much of a bastard as you claim 'your' father was."

"I never said I wasn't. I'm just saying, there are lines he'd cross that I never would, and that I'm worried you'd treat her the same way you treat me just because she's Alteran also."

"Like that would ever happen," Rodney snorts. "First of all, she may be blonde, but she's nowhere near as hot as you-"

"Gee. Thanks," John says, grinning at him in the half-darkness.

"-and, second, she's married." To 'Tria's' very hot (and nubile) Chief Medical Officer, Diana de Aynecuria Immunes. Even though she's not blonde either, if he weren't with John, Rodney'd definitely consider making an exception for 'her'. Though how that pair wound up together, he doubts anyone knows.

John bumps their shoulders. "I've told you, marriage didn't mean the same thing to my people that it does to yours."

"It means something to me," Rodney says, surprising himself.

In the past, if he'd found someone attractive, he'd hit on him or her regardless of circumstances. Once at Cal Tech he'd famously managed to hit on a groom at his bachelor party - which went about as well as one might imagine, though he and the best man had ended up having a thing for a couple of months. It'd been one of Rodney's longer relationships, pre-John.

But it's different now. It's not just that he has John and can see spending the rest of his life with him, it's that he gets why people want to spend their lives with just one person now. And maybe sometimes there are bumps in the road, but it's worth it, through richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and all the rest.

Maybe he should start thinking of ways to convince John to marry him.

John, of course, completely fails to notice this lightbulb moment. "That doesn't change anything. Danielia is smart. She knows I can't keep Atlantis running without you. If 'she' thinks she'd gain anything from it, she'll try to get you to have sex with her or become indebted to her in some other way. That's how her mind works."

"I don't think you have to worry about that."

John slumps against his side, bringing his head against Rodney's shoulder.

He's quiet for a long time, long enough that Rodney would have thought he'd fallen asleep if that were still a possibility. But after a while he asks, as if there'd been no interruption at all, "Am I doing the right thing?"

Rodney knows his 'amator' is not talking about his cousin anymore. "It's worked well so far." Better than fine even. No planet their teams have visited since the singing of the Charter has been openly hostile; most have been incredibly friendly, not wanting to go against their Ancient god. And, sure, there have been hiccups - overly-friendly high priestess, chieftains' sisters and merchants' daughters; the occasional demand for a miracle or fulfillment of a prophesy - but nothing too bad, or even all that dangerous. (Though the priestess from Latira had looked like she might have clawed his eyes out after he'd reminded her John was already in a long-term, committed monogamous relationship - by thoroughly examining John's tonsils with his tongue in front of her.)

"I don't trust things that go this well."

Which possibly explains all of John's commitment issues right there.

"Well, stop it. We've not had any fatalities - or even serious injuries, besides Doctor Parish breaking his arm falling off that ladder in Greenhouse Five - in seventy-seven days. The Replicators and the Wraith haven't made any move against us since the Charter was signed. You're the king of an entire galaxy and it's blue jello day in the mess hall tomorrow. Trust it or not, things 'are' going well, so try to relax."

"I want to. I really do. I just want to enjoy what time I have with you. But..."

Rodney rests his cheek against the top of John's head. "You're a good person, John. When the time comes, you'll be an excellent ruler. You've got nothing to worry about, Ori-wise."

Again, John says nothing. But he 'does' wrap an arm around Rodney's waist and pulls him closer.

He considers saying more, but there's nothing he 'can' say. If John doesn't believe him by now, nothing he can say ever will, no matter how much he should.


	18. Iudex, Part 3

"So, you are 'pastor'," one of the new Ancients says as he takes the seat across from him in the mess the morning after their arrival.

Evan sets down his coffee with a nod. He doesn't like these interlopers in his home or what their continued presence here might mean for the city, but that doesn't mean he won't at least try to be polite to them. "Yes. For a few months now."

"How curious," the Ancient continues, as if Evan were some sort of lab specimen and not a real, live human being. "I never would have imagined that such a weak, watered-down version of the activation gene could ever be strong enough to facilitate such an immutable connection as 'custodiae' and 'pastores' require."

"Not many humans have the ability. Our best estimates put the number of natural gene users at one thousandth a percent of Earth's total population."

The Ancient hums, considering this.

He looks so different from Colonel Sheppard, it's almost disconcerting - not that Evan expects all Ancients to be dark-haired and whip-thin, but this man is the original definition of forgettable. He's an indeterminate shade of dark blonde, with muddy brown eyes and washed-out features. The kind of person one never remembers meeting, even in the crazy, all-white alien getup he's wearing. Even looking right at him, it's hard to find out anything as memorable as a freckle.

When Evan says different, however, he means much more than just looks. It's everything about the Ancient - about all the Ancients, really. It's how they carry themselves so stiffly and how each movement they dare make is so perfectly controlled that it verges on robotic. It's how they blink slightly too often and breathe slightly too seldom. It's their vaguely Transatlantic accents and the way none of them - none - have yet to say a word to any member of the Expedition if they could possibly help it.

"I am Tomas Norens Nauta."

Well, at least now he has a name for this one. It's even a fairly normal, compared to some. "Major Evan Lorne."

Tomas hums again. It seems to be a thing with him. Maybe that will be enough for Evan to remember which of the  
hundred odd Ancients now in Atlantis he is. "I was the pilot aboard 'Tria'. What is your purpose here?"

"I'm the acting military commander of the city, at least, I am for as long as Colonel Sheppard is in charge of the Expedition. I'm also captain of 'Aurora'. But I was a pilot by trade myself before coming to Atlantis. I mostly few C-130s the last few years." Realising this would mean nothing to the Ancient, "C-130s are incredibly versatile planes," he explains. "They were designed for troop and cargo transport, but our militaries use them for all sorts of things - aerial refuelling, search and rescue, tactical airlifting..."

Tomas looks distinctly unimpressed, though he manages a, "Your race has certainly come far since Atlantis left your planet."

"The Colonel seems to like it," he says evenly.

"Colonel?"

"It's what we call Sheppard - Iohannes, that is." It's strange to say his commanding officer's given name, even if 'Lantis helps him give it the right pronunciation (with more syllables than Evan would have thought necessary) for this Ancient, who clearly doesn't think much of Sheppard or Earth. "It's his rank in our military, roughly similar to your 'legatus', I think."

"My," Tomas shakes his head. "Licinus certainly 'has' gone native, hasn't he?"

"He's been a good commander," he defends. Yes, the Colonel's tendency towards suicidal self-sacrifice is troubling, but Evan can't think of anyone he'd rather serve under, to the point where he's going to have some long, hard thinking to do if they try to send him back to Earth next time his contract's up for renewal.

"Oh, I am sure. I am just surprised that he has managed to survive for - what is it again? two-and-a-half years? - under such primitive conditions."

"That's something you'll have to take up with the Colonel, but we've got electricity, running water, and three squares a day, which is a lot better than some places I've been stationed over the years."

"I am sure," Tomas repeats, poking a pair of chopsticks listlessly into a bowl of brown rice and tavabeans.

Evan's jaw tightens. "Was there something you wanted?" he asks as politely as he can manage.

"My wife - my late wife," he says, Tomas' voice betraying an emotion besides contempt for the first time in their conversation, "was this city's last 'pastor'. I was merely wondering who Licinus thought adequate enough to replace her."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I am told she died during the Exodus - that she bled out from shrapnel wounds before Licinus regained consciousness. Thought I must admit I find it surprising that he, who never showed any interest in Ascension whatsoever (and, in fact, often spoke out against it), not only managed to survive for long enough for your Expedition to rescue him, but has since Ascended as well."

"How deep is the river if you cannot see the bottom?"

The Ancient inclines his head, giving him an appraising look. "I see you are not completely ignorant then."

"The Colonel," Evan tells him, feeling his jaw clench again, "has been teaching me about Ancient - Alteran - philosophy." He's still not sure if Sheppard had come up with the idea on his own or if Radek had nettled him into doing it, trying to encourage him to finally write his dissertation, but he's enjoying it either way, so Evan's decided it doesn't matter.

"I am sure he has," Tomas says meaningfully, picking at his breakfast again, but before Evan can ask what he means by that, another tray slides next to him.

"Hey guys," the Colonel says smoothly, kicking out his chair. "Getting to know each other, I see."

"Licinus."

"Colonel."

To Evan's great surprise, it's not Tomas' greeting the Colonel winces at, but his own.

"Lorne," Sheppard says, shooting him a 'play along with me' look, "I told you to call me 'Pater'." He turns his false smile back on Tomas. "I don't think I mentioned it yesterday, but I chose to adopt the Major here when I became 'Imperator'."

Evan's fairly certain he heard that wrong or that his translation matrix is acting up. As the Colonel continues, however, it becomes more and more clear that he had, in fact, heard his commanding officer correctly.

/Well,/ he thinks at Atlantis, /this is going to be hard to explain to my mom./

/It's okay,/ she assures him negligently, most of her attention on some project of her own she's refusing to talk about. /We understand./

He fights the urge to hang his head between his hands and tries to pay attention to what Sheppard's saying.

"After all, every ruler needs an 'heres' and its not like I'm likely to be having kids of my own in my current state. Besides, he was practically family before the whole Confederation thing happened anyway. Oh! His name in Alteran is Davidus Iohanideus Argathelianus Pastor if that's any easier for you - I know the Terran names can be a bit strange and hard to pronounce sometimes. Though I suppose you could just call him 'cousin' if you want. After all, this makes him your third cousin by marriage, doesn't it?"

Tomas' chopsticks fall to his tray with a clatter. "On second thought, I am not that hungry."

When he leaves, Sheppards turns back to Evan with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. The others won't ever respect a Descendant, no matter what his rank or position. Adopting you - or claiming to - makes you almost Alteran and gives you some reason in their eyes to tolerate your existence. Hopefully it will be enough."

"Enough? Enough for what?"

"I'm not sure yet," the Colonel admits, shrugging. "But Danielia is a Machiavellian 'futatrix' and Tomas... He's a yes-man to the bone. If his 'navarcha' ordered him to gather information on you - or worse - he'd do it, no questions asked."

Evan can't help but wonder if Sheppard is just that paranoid, or if there really is something monstrous in the survivors of the 'Tria' that only he can see.

"He just wanted to talk about this late wife," he tries to explain.

The Colonel's face immediately closes off.

There's no point in asking if he knew her. Instead Evan asks, "Were you two close?"

"Me and Nicolaa?" he asks, surprised. "The closest. We even dating for several years. and then we broke up and I went to Tirianus and she she married Tomas."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It all happened ages ago. Ten years before the Exodus even. Ancient history," he laughs humorously.

Evan doesn't know what to say to that, so he finishes his breakfast instead. It's a practice that's served him well in the past and will certainly continue to do so in the future, provided Pegasus didn't kill him first.

* * *

"Normally," Radek says, coming up to lean on the railing outside the Conference Room next to him, "it is considered polite to let someone know when he is working for one of both of your parents."

Evan shoots him a small smile. It's all he dares do considering just who is on the other side of the doors. "I only found out about the Colonel's plan this morning. I can't say I understand it, but he knows his people a whole lot better than I do. I have to assume he'd doing what he thinks best."

"That the Colonel thinks his plan best, I have no doubt. But at various points in time he has also thought piloting a nuclear bomb into side of Wraith hive ship and allowing Michael to escape so that he might be killed in the process to be 'best plan'."

"What are you saying?" he asks quietly, still on the defensive from Tomas' questions at breakfast. "That we shouldn't trust the Colonel?"

"No, no," Radek corrects hastily, somewhat aghast, "nothing like that. I only meant to say that his plans are often dangerous and depend as much on luck as they do skill."

"He's saved this city a dozen times over."

"I do not deny that. I just do not want to see you inheriting your new father's suicidal tendencies."

Evan snorts. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"Good," Radek says with a grin just this side of manic, "I would hate to have to break in a new assistant."

Laughing now, "Assistant?" he asks. Is that what they are calling it now, this thing between them? They've not labeled it, trying to keep it from becoming too serious. He's still in the United States Air Force, DADT is still a thing, and pretences still have to be kept up. He's just lucky Radek understands (though in all likelihood Radek would be just as secretive about if they could tell - but that's just who he is).

"In the ongoing effort to keep our bosses - your new adoptive parents - from getting themselves killed in some foolhardy enterprise."

Evan stops laughing abruptly. "God. I have Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay as adoptive parents. Is that even legal? Doesn't it violate some part of your Declaration of Universal Rights?"

It could be interesting, possibly even amusing, to see Sheppard try hand at fatherhood. Never mind the fact that Evan is thirty-six and the Ancient in question is something like thirty-eight when all his years in stasis are taken out, he can see the Colonel taking the adoptive fatherhood thing pretty seriously. After all, he already takes the whole nephew business to illogical extremes, regardless of the five hundred odd generations involved; Evan can't think of any reason why adoptive fatherhood might be any different for him.

But Doctor McKay...

He really worries about child Doctor McKay might have a hand in raising. Not so much 'for' the child as for the rest of the universe, which is in no way, shape, or form ready for McKay two point oh.

"Back home, I do not know," Radek admits, his grin moving past manic and well on the way to maniacal. "But in this galaxy the Colonel's word is law. Congratulations: you are a prince."

"Lucky me."

"Very lucky you. It means that when the IOA forces the rest of us to return to Earth, you have a chance of staying."

"You think they'll actually do that? Pull the Expedition out?" Reduce it in size and scope, maybe, but not pull out.

"The IOA is made up of bureaucrats and politicians, and Atlantis is expensive and dangerous enterprise. If they can see a way to get all of her benefits with none of the risks, then yes, Evan, I think we will be recalled in heartbeat."

"I hope not."

Radek makes an indistinct noise. "All I know is that governments will do whatever it takes to keep themselves in power. Which will be easier to do if they are not spending billions of dollars they cannot account for on a program they cannot admit exists."

"I'm not disagreeing," even if, sometimes, he feels Radek's youth behind the Iron Curtain made him overly pessimistic. "I just think that the people back on Earth who in the know are smart enough to know that Atlantis is a lot more than just a black hole where their money goes."

"How a solider can be so naive," Radek says, shaking his head, "I do not know."

"The Air Force doesn't have soldiers. It has airmen."

"My apologies. English is my fourth language. I sometimes make mistakes."

Evan snorts. Because that's about as true as the Colonel's 'innocent alien' routine.

Radek continues to grin at him like some kind of love-drunk teenager.

He really has no idea how no one other than Colonel Sheppard has guessed they're together, for all their secrecy. (Though it 'is' a distinct possibility that anyone else who may have guessed is well-versed enough in American military politics - and well-mannered enough - not to mention it.

The Conference Room doors swivel open.

"...a huge mistake, General," Sheppard says sharply, following General O'Neill out of the room.

"We 'do' have our own galaxy to worry about, Colonel."

"I get that," he insists with the same sharp, fierce intensity, the kind that used to preclude all the worst possible things before he Ascended. (Torture. Assassination. Medical experimentation. Genocide.) Now... Now it is the one and only warning for the approaching wrath of a merciless god. "I really do. But the Wrath know about Avalon. If we cannot contain them here, Terra will be in danger just the same."

"Well then, Sheppard," O'Neill says, distinctly unimpressed in the way only a man whose faced down - and mocked - dozens of false gods can be, and pats him on the back, "you'll just have to contain them, won't you?"

He pulls away. "You're responsible for this. Not completely, but you bear at least some responsibility for the situation Pegasus is in. Terra cannot simply abandon its commitments to this galaxy."

It's Woolsey who answers. "This isn't our galaxy. This isn't our fight."

"You 'made' it your fight," the Colonel counters immediately, the storm in his face growing. He's always been a force of nature - there's no choice but to follow him, no matter what path he takes them down, - but it's undeniable now. Radek rattled off the numbers once: he's a thunderstorm, an earthquake, an atomic bomb held together by sheer force of will, and while Sheppard is one of the most stubborn men Evan's ever met, even his control can slip. (As Doctor Weir discovered.)

"Licinus," Captain Helia interrupts in a gentle voice that's rather at odds with her cat-who-got-the-canary smile, "they have made their decision. You must respect that."

"Stay out of this, Danielia. Haven't you caused enough trouble for one day?"

"The only thing I have been doing is abrogating the damage you have caused this city with your impulsivity and short-sightedness."

"I've been saving this galaxy."

"Pray tell me, just when were you elected our moral compass? Was it after your battle strategy caused Tirianus to Fall? Or did you wait until you thought the rest of us dead to place yourself on that pedestal?"

"I was the only one here, Danielia," he says with flashing eyes. "I got to make the choices because I was the only person around to make them.

"But if you want to start pointing fingers, why don't we talk about why 'Tria' turned tail mid-battle? Or why you chose to make for Avalon when you had to know there was no way you could make in your lifetime, not even with stasis and relativity working on your side?"

"The evacuation signal was given-"

"There was no such signal."

"Half the fleet had been destroyed. Tirianus was breaking apart in the atmosphere. Licinus, the battle was lost! It was only a matter of time before an evacuation signal 'was' given. If there was any chance of saving my 'linter' and my crew, we had to leave then."

"We lasted for seven years without you."

"We might have lasted seven hundred if we had not listened to your misguided belief that the Siege could be broken and the Wraith defeated if we brought Tirianus from Albion, where it was safe, to Lantea," she counters, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her head with a jerk of her chin that makes her curls dance wildly, like they've a mind of their own.

"Oh, yes, because 'your' plan to reactivate the Asurans was completely sound and unlikely to end in the pointless slaughter of every Descendant in this galaxy."

O'Neill steps between the Ancients, forcing the cousins apart before the shadows can gather too thickly around the Colonel. "If I might be so bold, might I suggest you save this for some other time?"

Undeterred, "You can't do this, General," he repeats. "Pulling out this Expedition now undermines all of the sacrifices that we've made over the last two-and-a-half years to protect Atlantis and the people - all the people - on her. Look me in the eye and tell me you're okay with that."

"The order comes from high up the food chain, John," the General admits, sounding genuinely bitter about it. "There's nothing I can do about it."

"You're the commander of the Department of Homeworld Security. There 'is' no higher up the food chain than you."

"It's a civilian Expedition. The IOA gets the final say."

He turns to Woolsey. "Then 'you' listen to me. You can't do this-"

"The decision's been made, Colonel," Woolsey says, looking decidedly uncomfortable. He's right to be too: the last person that look was turned on died at Sheppard's hand not long after.

"Alright," he agrees, like it costing him the only price that matters. "But the 'custodiae' and 'pastores' stay."

"Out of the question. We need Doctor McKay back at Area 51."

The Colonel's jaw twitches, but he presses on. "Major Lorne then. He's 'pastor' and 'heres'. He stays."

"That okay with you, Major?"

"Yessir," Evan says before he can even think through his answer. Atlantis is 'home'. He belongs here more than he ever did back in San Francisco, or Afghanistan, or the SGC. He would gladly stay here, even if it means resigning commission and never seeing Earth again-

-which it might very well. For all the noises Captain Helia has made about cooperation, everything she's done and everything Sheppard has said about her have indicated otherwise. Even if she doesn't actively hate Earth, she still dislikes its people for being 'Descendants'. Humans had been barely more than hunters and gathers when she'd been born; even now they are hopelessly unadvanced compared to the Ancients at their nadith. They would never be good enough for Helia and, if ever the Tau'ri were to return to Atlantis, it would likely only be after her Ascension.

And, surprisingly, Evan's okay with that. He loves his family and what friends he has back on Earth, but Earth's not Atlantis. He'd be okay with a only letter from home once or twice a year for the rest of his life if means he gets to stay on Atlantis.

The only problem is Radek. He'll be going back to Earth. They've been trying to keep things from becoming too serious between them (because one of them being recalled has always been a possibility, because General Landry is one of the last proponents of the old guard and believes in things like DADT to the depths of his bible-thumping soul; because they've seen what happens to people who care too much in Pegasus), but Evan would like them to be one day.

Would have liked them to be one day.

General O'Neill turns back to Sheppard triumphantly. "You can have him."

"And," Woolsey adds carefully, albeit with a detectable air of smugness, "remember that Captain Helia has agreed to leave a liaison from the IOA behind."

"Forgive me if I'm not jumping for joy, but I've seen how this game ends. Living through the extinction of my race is not something I'd planned on doing a second time, but seeing as how every semi-intelligent species I come across seems intent on letting itself be slaughtered, it looks like it's something I'm going to have to get used to"

Radek looks like he's about to say something about the Colonel's own self-preservation instincts - something untoward in Czech about how he's never met a suicide mission he doesn't like, perhaps - but before he can Sheppard stalks off in a shower of sparks.

"Well, that went well," O'Neill say, clapping his hands together.

Woolsey looks at him, askance. "I'm almost afraid to ask what would qualify as 'not well'."

"Dead usually covers it, wouldn't you say, Major?"

"I'd say so, Sir."

The General, to his great surprise, gives him a warm smile and, to his even greater surprise, a claps a hand heavily on Evan's shoulder as he passes. "Keep an eye on our boy for me," he says quietly, as if he too has some idea of just how bad this might get before it starts getting any better.

* * *

They give the Expedition fifty-six hours to pack up, and since the Colonel places him in charge of overseeing the recall, the time seems to fly. There are barely six hundred people in the city, less than some of the FOBs Evan's been stationed at, but it's amazing how much 'stuff' there is to send back. Computer servers and medical equipment, stacks M2s and crates of M9s - all things the Ancients have no want or need for. It's all got to go. And be inventoried, packaged, transported onto 'Daedalus', and reinventoried.

There's no time to think, to process, to breathe, and next thing he knows, Evan's watching the people he's lived and worked with for years disappear through the Gate forever.

Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay are whispering intently off to the side, continuing the 'discussion' they've been having for days. Evan doesn't can't hear what they're saying, but he can guess. Everyone can.

"So I guess this is goodbye," Radek says, walking up behind him with a suitcase in hand.

He wants to disagree. He wants to say that their exile won't be forever. That this isn't the end.

But he doesn't, because this 'is' the end. Of their relationship. Of the Expedition. Of everything. And there's nothing that anyone can do to stop it.

"I guess so," Evan manages, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's been..."

"Yes," Radek agrees awkwardly, pushing his glasses up his nose with his free hand. "It has." He takes a deep breath, then, "Goodbye, Evan."

"Goodbye, Radek."

And then the only man he's ever loved walks through the wormhole, dragging a protesting Doctor McKay with him, and it really is the end of an era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this actually is as long as it looked on paper.   
> This is also the last of the finished stories I wrote while in SEPS. Most of the first chappie fo the next installment is written out, though, so it might not be too long before you get more. Maybe. I have this crazy idea for the next one... so it might take a while. 
> 
> As always, the family tree will probably prove immensely helpful if you're trying to figure out just who some of the Ancients are. I assure you that all those mentioned here have been mentioned in previous installments (continuity! Go me!) as well... 
> 
> And, of course, I am a review whore. I judge my self-worth by the number of kudos, hits, and comments I get of my fics (I try not to, but I suppose it could be worse), so if you'd like to drop me a line and help with that, I'd be much appreciative. Even if it is just to ask a quick question, like "who the frack is that person?" or "what the hell are they talking about?". Because I love you all and love hearing from my readers.


	19. Exsul, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was supposed to be longer, but 1) I started to get annoyed by it and it was either post-or-delete time and, 2) even if it did get to the part I wanted, I'd have to break it apart, so this seemed the logical place. 
> 
> Other things to note include: 1) The Intergalactic Gate Bridge was tested on 2 November, 2006; 2) The Expedition returned to Earth 6 November, 2006; 3) it is approximately 7 December, 2006 in this story. Yes, that means a month has passed. 4) "Exsul" means "Exile" in Latin, and, yes, I've been waiting to use that one. "Proditores" is "traitors." 5) "Star Wars" is the nickname for Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative, which was meant to spy on other countries and protect us from nuclear attack during the Cold War. It never happened. Obviously. 6) Brilliant Eyes was a sub-project of this, mostly the surveillance part of it, and in my 'verse it was what Rodney was working on for the Air Force before he joined the Stargate Program (see "Legati" part 3 if you forgot). 7) Brilliant Eyes became the Space-Based Infrared System (SBIRS) in the late '90s. And that is what Oracle is supposed to have grown out of in this 'verse. 8) Qetesh really was known as the "Mistress of All Gods" in Egyptian Mythology.
> 
> I think that's it.
> 
> Oh, yes, and they've not found the Sangraal yet.

Sam watches Rodney shake a handful of acetaminophen into his palm and swallow it with a mouthful of stale black coffee.

He makes a face and drops both pill bottle and mug to the metal table with an absent, tired clatter. Both are oversized and both, by the sounds of it, are nearly empty. "Do you have a fresh pot? Or at least a warm one? We're on Earth. Supply really shouldn't be an issue here, but it always seems to be. I'm fairly sure the particle physicist in the lab at the end of the hall has been making off with the good beans - you know the one, the one from Texas with the stereotypical big belt buckles and leather cowboy boots. I've not had time to set up surveillance, but I'm sure it's him. He's got a shifty look about him."

She bites her lower lip. It's worse than she thought. "How many of those have you had today?"

"Cups of coffee?" he asks without looking at her, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. Whether it's a caffeine headache he's feeding or caffeine withdrawal he's fighting off, she can't say for sure. "Eight? Nine? Ten maybe? I don't know. No more than usual. Why? What does it matter?"

"I meant pills."

"It's not anywhere near enough to kill me, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not."

"Well," Rodney says dryly, finally glancing up. His eyes are bloodshot, with bags enough to fill Denver International's baggage claim twice over, and that's just the most obvious sign of his dishabille. To say he looks like death warmed-over would be unfair to the dead. It's probably best to say that he looks less like the smartest man in two galaxies and more like someone whose been living under a bridge of late, "as much as I appreciate your concern, it's unwarranted. I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You look like you haven't slept for days and you haven't left your lab since you got here. People are saying that you seem listless, distracted even."

A scowl quickly forms on his face. "So now you have people spying on me."

"No, not at all. But several of our colleagues and research assistants have come to me with their worries"

"'Proditores'," he murmurs under his breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that."

Waving a hand tiredly, "It's not important. Just like my sleeping habits."

"I only bring it up because I'm concerned about you, McKay. I know what it's like to lose someone you care about-"

"I've not 'lost' anyone," he says, fervent and irascible (and somewhat closer to the Rodney McKay she knows, not this  
haggard and stripped-down version that's been making the rounds ever since the Expedition returned to Earth five weeks ago. Sam never thought she'd miss the blunt and brash McKay she'd met years ago, the one that flirted with her and insulted her in the same breath, but this version is just 'wrong'. Wrong in ways she doesn't have words for. "John's 'fine'. He's just on Atlantis. Where I would be if the IOA wasn't blind to everything but their cost-benefit analyses and their petty, Earth-centric politics."

"Yes, yes, I know," Sam says, quickly putting up her hands in the universal sign of 'I come in peace.' "I know John's alright, but he's also three million light years away. And that kind of separation can be difficult for anyone, even if everything else is fine between them."

"Your point?"

"That you don't have to go through this alone. There are plenty of people at Area 51 you can talk to-"

"I don't need to talk to a shrink."

"It doesn't have to be a shrink. It can be anyone - friend, colleague, bartender; whoever you want. I know in the past when Jack's gone missing-"

Rodney stands abruptly, letting his chair skitter back with a clatter. "All of my paperwork has been turned on time, All my projects are progressing at a faster-than-anticipated rate. The day that fails to be true, then - and only then - do you get the right to lecture me about my personal life." He grabs his coffee mug and industrial-sized bottle of acetaminophen. "Now, if you don't mind, I have 'real' work to get back to."

"Alright, but-" she sighs, but it's too late. Rodney's already out the door.

She sighs again and glances at her watch. It's only 1422 MDT. Far too early to home but far too late for her to be thinking about anything else. Sam stands up and pushes in both chairs. Something, somewhere, is bound to need fixing, and that should occupy her until its time to go home.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she's eight hundred miles east and walking into the SGC's main astrodynamics lab with a cup of coffee she probably doesn't need in one hand a sugar cookie she definitely doesn't in the other. But the holiday season is upon them and, even in a place as normally removed from the passage of time as the base, goodies of all kinds are appearing in every corner. After being faced with platters of Christmas cookies and bowls of Santa-shaped chocolates, her self-control is only so strong.

Besides, what's the point of saving the world if she can't have a cookie every now and then?

"Hey Bill," she says, wiping the crumbs off her lips. "Walter said that you had something you wanted to show me."

"Colonel Carter!" he starts, quickly X'ing out of several screens on his computer. "I thought you were still in Area 51 and wouldn't be back for hours."

"Unfortunately McKay is proving to to be more unreasonable than usual."

"Doctor McKay can be very stubborn."

Sam hums. The was one word for it. Intractable is another. Bastard a third. (Heartsick, a forth, is probably the best fit at the moment, and she'd almost feel sorry for Rodney if the third didn't describe him so well.) "So, what was it you wanted to show me?"

"Oh, yes. I was running some tests on the new Oracle satellite system and noticed something odd."

"Odd?"

"More curious really," he says, directing her attention to another workspace eagerly.

"Curious? How so?"

"Well, I'm picking up sensor ghosts, mostly. Not all the time either, just every now and then, on no fixed pattern that I've been able to determine so far."

"What kind of sensor ghosts?" Sam asks, leaning over his shoulder to look at the readings. There's nothing showing up at the moment, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, especially if it's not really a sensor ghost.

"That's just it - I can't tell. Something small, that for sure, hanging about near the Earth-Moon L2 Lagrange point. A F-302, probably, or a runabout."

"A runabout?"

"It's a type of small shuttlecraft from 'Star Trek'-"

"I know where it's from." Why all the men on this base seem to assume she's completely unfamiliar with the SyFy channel and it's offerings is beyond her. "I was just surprised. Even if Oracle isn't working perfectly, we should be able to pick up a ha'tak or Ori battleship anywhere in the system. And, since we're not, you've got to wonder how such a small that size might have gotten here on its own."

"Well, I'm definitely not picking up anything that could be a potential mothership anywhere in system, just the runabout - though I suppose there 'are' plenty of places a mothership could hide if they know where the blind spots in our sensors are. Or in the shadow of one of the gas giants, maybe. Or out in the Kuiper belt if it had strong enough shields..."

"Let me take a look at it."

Flustered, Bill protests, "There's nothing there now."

"I meant the records of the old ghosts."

"Oh, yes, right. Of course. That makes senses." There's an awkward moment in which Bill does nothing. Then, noting her pointed look, "I guess I should probably get those pulled up for you."

"Yeah," Sam says, holding back a sigh as she reminds herself Bill really can be an excellent scientist when he puts his mind to it. "That'd probably be a good idea."

* * *

It takes her a long time to realise that the sensor ghost is more than a ghost. Too long, actually. At first she wants to say its because she's not had that much of a hand in the Oracle project - most of her time has been spent studying Arthur's Mantle, trying to track down the location of the Sangraal - and, as such, is unfamiliar with the system. But, the further Sam digs, the more certain she becomes that someone's actively trying to hide something at the Earth-Moon L2 Lagrange point.

But who? And what? It's hard to tell. Oracle is a very new program, only having gone online in the last two weeks, but its one that involves dozens of governments, hundreds of satellites, and nearly a thousand personnel.

Sam had come up with the idea on Atlantis after hearing to John talk about the orbital Maginot lines that the Ancients had put in place during the Siege: a series of hundreds of mines, satellites, and space stations all designed with the sole purpose of slowing the Wraith's inexorable advance. After nearly two hundred years of war, all had been destroyed, but she had liked the concept. It would be impossible to replicate in the Sol system, of course, without modifying existing treaties on the placement of nuclear warheads in outer space, but they could at least take the idea of a space surveillance system and apply it to their own planet.

With the Ori Crusade advancing at a frightful rate, it had been easy to convince the Secretary of the Air Force to turn the Space-Based Infrared System that had grown out of Reagan's Star Wars initiative over to the SGC. Where SBIRS had been designed for missile warning and detection on Earth, as Oracle they had turned it's capabilities outwards to detect alien threats-

-at least, that had been the plan. Sam had been forced to hand the project over to Area 51 to keep from being spread too thin. McKay, a veteran of the the original Brilliant Eyes project, had taken over for her. Using the knowledge of Ancient technology he'd picked up on Atlantis, he'd manage to extend the sensor range of their existing satellites and program patches that would allow for better information sharing between the military satellites they'd repurposed for this reason from various IOA member nations. It was far from perfect and would eventually be replaced by a network of dedicated satellites, but it would do until then.

And now someone was actively trying to hide 'something' in the shadow of the Moon. It could be something as simple as a foreign power trying to hide some asset they don't wish the rest of the IOA to know about, or as dire as some convert to Origin attempting to mask the next Ori beachhead. Thousands of possible threats lay between.

Sam runs a hand across her face and reaches for the coffee.

Which is, of course, when Vala chooses to march into her office, clap her hands together loudly, and declare loudly, "It's two o'clock in the morning."

The coffee cup skitters out of her hands and slips off the desk, managing to avoid most of her research but not her pants. Luckily, it's only lukewarm at this point, but pants covered in lukewarm coffee are still about as far from enjoyable as it can get.

"And this is why we don't do science in the small tiny hours of the morning. C'mon. Leave that for the burly young men with mops." She tugs on the sleeve of Sam's jacket, dragging her out into the hall. "Let's get you in in some dry clothes and into bed, where all good little scientists belong at ungodly hours like this one."

Sam blinks. She's not entirely sure what's happening. "What are you doing up? I thought you said it was 0200."

"Well," Vala drawls, now pushing her towards the elevator bank, "I 'was' asleep." She gestures with one hand at her pink-and-yellow pyjamas and mussed pigtails, using the other to usher Sam into the elevator. "But Daniel's still up, and for some reason he was talking to that bald Master Sergeant, the one with the glasses, and 'he' mentioned that you were still in your lab. Which Daniel took as an excellent reason to call down to 'my' room and wake 'me' up so 'I' could make sure you got some sleep before tomorrow. I, of course, asked why he couldn't do it and he said something about Camelot that didn't make much sense, so I got the impression that he's not going to be getting much sleep either tonight."

"And you're not drag him out of his lab and force him to go to bed?"

"Nope."

"That seems awfully unfair."

"Well, mostly because it's that I don't care enough 'what' Daniel does or does not do in his free time anymore. But you're also far more more reasonable when it comes to these sorts of things. Do you know," she adds, aghast, as the elevator doors open onto one of the residential levels, "that I've done everything short of march naked into his office before trying to get him to leave and it's never worked, not once?"

"Daniel can be stubborn."

"'Daniel' can be stubborn?" Vala repeats, sniggering as she drags her down the hall. "Try 'everyone on this planet'. That's the problem with Earth. No one here knows to have fun. You know what we should do after we get you in pants without coffee stains on them? Have a movie night - or movie morning, whatever the chronologically correct turn of phrase is. I've got the latest season of that show with the improbably handsome brothers and the even more improbable story lines on tape, or, if you're not in the mood for that, Teal'c left his entire collection of 'Star Wars' with me while he's on Chulak."

"How about a rain check?" Now that she thinks about it, she's actually exhausted. All she wants to do is sleep, preferably in her own bed, but since she doesn't quite trust herself to drive in her current state, that's not likely to happen.

"If you insist. But it 'will' happen. Preferably at your place, with lots of popcorn and lots of those fruity drinks with the tiny umbrellas."

"We'll see," Sam smiles tiredly at her as she's ushered into Vala's quarters. They're bright and cheery and full of personality in the way most the accommodations aren't, almost like a real apartment. Almost.

"What were you working on that was so important you forgot to go home anyway?" she asks, riffling through her dresser drawers. "You're usually pretty good about remembering when it's time to leave this little underground fortress of yours and escape into the world of malls and movies and takeout pizza for awhile." She tosses Sam a pair of Alice blue pyjama bottoms and a worn University of Chicago sweatshirt that had probably at one time belonged to Daniel. "Also, weren't you supposed to go to Area 51 to have this same conversation with McKay yesterday?"

Sam starts changing. "I'm well aware of the irony. Though I've got to say I'm still better about it than he is. When I got there he was mainlining coffee and painkillers like there's no tomorrow. I'm worried about him."

"Which just goes to show that you Tau'ri scientists need to leave your dark underground holes more often. I mean, what's the point of trying to protect your planet from the Ori at all if you don't take advantage of some of it's perks every now and then? By which I mean preferably once a week, with lots of popcorn and even more alcohol."

"In all honesty, I don't think McKay cares about the Ori or even Earth anymore. At some point in the last two-and-a-half years, Atlantis became his home. And now he's furious with us for taking him away."

"Yes, well, with a boy toy like Colonel Sheppard, who wouldn't be? I mean, have you seen his ass-"

"Vala!"

"What?" she nettles, bouncing into the exact centre of her bed and crossing her legs. "He's an attractive man. A little too pretty for my usual tastes, but certainly worth making an exception over should the occasion ever arise. Granted, we'd probably kill each other before we made it a week, god, but the sex would be-"

-something Sam never wants to hear about, fantasy or otherwise. (The goa'uld Vala had once been host to, Qetesh, had been known amongst the System Lords as 'the Mistress of All the Gods' and rather than repress these memories, as Sam had done with Jolinar's, Vala had chosen to embrace them. This, while possibly healthier, has too often led to her sharing such detailed descriptions of her daydreams that they've left Sam unable to look at certain coworkers for weeks without turning beet red.)

Desperate for a change of topic, she says quickly, "Maybe you should talk to him?"

"Colonel Sheppard? I would, but its not like Atlantis has dialled Earth since the Ancients took it back, which makes it a little difficult, darling. Though we were having the most 'fascinating' discussions via email before about-"

Sam cuts her off there. "I meant Doctor McKay."

"Oh," Vala says, sinking back onto her small mountain of pillows. "Him. I suppose I could, though I don't think it would do much good. I don't think he likes me very much."

"He likes you a hell of a lot more than he likes me at the moment. If you could just do what you were saying earlier and drag him out of his lab for a little while, I think everyone in the Program would be immensely grateful."

Vala appears to consider this.

Sam ups the ante. "I'll give you my credit card."

"Done."


	20. Exsul, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took forever, but this is the first full story I've written since getting out of SEPS, so it took me a while to get back into the swing of things. Plus, this one was a b*tch to write, and most of it didn't exist until yesterday, when I had a major break in the writer's block. (Thanks to rhia_starsong, who unintentionally gave me what I needed to make this work.)  
> BTW, this part actually takes place on 4 December, 2006, about 5 days before pars una. Sorry about that.   
> For extended story notes, see the series page for this 'verse. I've updated the links.

Evan takes to spending his time aboard 'Aurora' following what Sheppard has taken to calling The Second Exodus. Technically he's been granted commission in the Lantean Guard as a 'navarchus' - the rough equivalent of an O-5 or O-6, - which keeps him amongst the highest ranking officers on Atlantis, but Captain Helia, the city's new military commander, seems to have little use for him.

No, it's better by far just to stay with Rory, teaching himself how to operate all of her secondary systems and letting her practice her 'elocution' by reading aloud to him from Ancient books she finds in 'Lantis' database. Sure, she can sometimes get petulant and insist he read to her instead - to which Evan has finally relented, though he feels somewhat more ridiculous than usual when he reads aloud to an empty room. And, yes, she's a bit of a brat when it comes to certain things - she insists, like the rest of the Ancients, on calling him Argathelianus for one, and she also derives a certain pleasure from randomly giving him minor electric shocks. But it's a lot better than having to deal with the Ancients, who give arrogance a whole new meaning.

Don't get Evan wrong: he loves Atlantis and Colonel Sheppard is the best commanding officer he's ever had, even if he's made the somewhat unusual lateral move into adoptive fatherhood. But the other Ancients... They're 'alien' in a way the Colonel never was. They're cold and callous and even a little bit cruel, so wrapped up in their technological and evolutionary superiority that other species barely ding on their radar as sentient at all. It becomes more and more obvious the more time he spends around them that this people - the Terrans, the Tau'ri, whatever one wants to call them - have never been anything more than science experiments to them-

-and he has absolutely no idea why Sheppard ever treated them any differently. Long before he ever Ascended, he was a god among men. Had the Colonel wanted, he could have reached out his hand and taken control of Pegasus long before Ladon Radim came to him with the idea of the Confederation. Yet he hadn't and even now he's little more than a figurehead, serving to unite people with nothing in common but their worship of the Ancestors and their fear of the Wraith. Despite his newly realized divinity, Sheppard expends a tremendous amount of effort to appear human. And Evan has 'absolutely no idea why'.

Just as he has no idea why the Colonel fought so hard to keep him here.

Just as he has no idea why the Colonel didn't fight harder to keep Doctor McKay on Atlantis.

Just as he has no idea why the Colonel let Captain Helia name herself 'praetor', or allow her to go about as if 'she' and not Colonel Sheppard is in charge of Atlantis.

All Evan knows for sure is that life on Atlantis following The Second Exodus is confusing and emotionally draining. Which is why he spends as much time aboard 'Aurora' as he can get away with, which is surprisingly a lot.

Which is also why, when everything finally comes to a head, it finds him on 'Aurora's' Bridge, bare feet dangling over one of the arms of the Captain's Chair, reading aloud from Robert A. Heinlein's 'The Moon is a Harsh Mistress."

* * *

"'...like a machine with proper negative feedback,'" he reads. "'A good line marriage is immortal; expect mine to outlast me at least a thousand years - and is why shan't mind dying when time comes; best part of me will go on living.'"

He pauses to turn the page and is surprised when Rory, who'd been listening with rapt attention to the story, suddenly makes a sharp, high-pitched noise that almost has Evan falling out of his chair. "What the hell, Rory?"

/Some-one just came a-board./

"The Colonel?" it isn't unusual for Sheppard to stop by, but usually he comes later in the day, not to mention that Rory usually sounds far more pleased about it.

/No, not 'Pa-ter'. Some-one else. They had to use an over-ride code to en-ter./

One of the Ancients then. "Do you know who?"

There is a pause. /'Ma-ter' says he is To-mas Nor-ens Nau-ta./

"And which one is that again?"

Rory spares the time to give him a long, exasperated sigh in the middle of her freak-out. /He's the bor-ing one./

"Yeah, that doesn't help me much, 'delicia'," Evan snorts, the Ancient word falling easily from his tongue after so many weeks of being forced to use the language if he needs to speak with most of the city's new population.

/He's the 'real-ly' bor-ing one. The one who marr-ied 'Pa-ter's' old 'a-ma-tor', Nic-ol-a-a de Lu-er-a Pas-tor, af-ter they broke up be-cause 'Pa-ter' did-n't want to have a ba-by./ She seems to bite her metaphorical lip as Evan's eyes widen at this new piece of information. /We don't think we were sup-pos-ed to tell you that part./

"I'll keep that in mind," he says delicately, closing the book and looking for what he did with his shoes. He has the vague idea that he might not have bothered putting them on at all this morning, having not planned to leave the ship at all today, but Evan hopes he's just remembered wrong. He doesn't fancy the idea of dealing with Sheppard's ex's widower barefoot, especially if the guy is who he thinks he is. He has his sidearm, at least - a proper Beretta, not the useless stunners the Ancients use; - that makes him feel at least mildly prepared to deal with the situation.

/'Pa-ter' does-n't like talking a-bout Be-fore./

"I've noticed that."

/Why?/

Evan pauses his search, as fruitless as it likely is, and glances at the overhead. "I dunno. That's something you'll have to ask him."

/We 'have',/ she wails, her tantrum turning from fear to frustration. /We have asked 'Ma-ter' and 'Pa-ter' and you, but no one will tell us 'any-thing'. E-ver. We don't know why the Ter-rans left and we don't know why our sis-ter was left be-hind and no one will tell us any-thing. We know peo-ple al-ways leave, but no one will tell us 'why'."

"It's complicated," he sighs.

/We are not a child any-more, Ar-gat-hel-i-an-us! We think we would be a-ble to un-der-stand, if only ev-er-y-one would let us./

Evan resists the urge to bang his head against the bulkhead, if only because Rory would probably take that the wrong way. And because Tomas Norens Nauta is bound to show up any second. Giving up on his search for shoes, he suggests, "How about I try to explain it later? After we deal with whatever Tomas wants."

The ship twitters in agreement for one happy instant before the worry returns, her song dancing about like a violinist trying to find the right key. /What do you think he wants?/

"Probably to tell us how much he doesn't like Colonel Sheppard again."

/That's sil-ly,/ she tells him, as if the very idea is riddiculous. /'Pa-ter' is the kind-est, best man in the whole wide un-i-verse. On-ly bad peo-ple don't like him and 'Pa-ter' would nev-er let bad peo-ple near 'Ma-ter'./

Five years old, Evan decides. He's pseudo-married to a sentient spaceship with all the maturity of a five-year-old, who may or may not also be considered his adopted sister in certain jurisdictions. "When did my life get so weird?" he wonders aloud.

/You're not weird, Ar-gat-hel-i-an-us,/ Rory assures him, still using her 'you're being silly' voice.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Whatever you say, 'delicia.'

Which is, of course, when company arrives.

"I will never understand," Tomas says derisively, walking through the open doorway without further greeting, as if 'he' owns the place, "why 'pastores' feel the need to speak aloud to their charges. I have been made to understand that it is possible to converse with the 'intelligentiae artificiales' mentally. Certainly it would be much less disruptive for all involved if you conversed that way?"

Evan gives him a tight smile. It seems like he's remembered the right Ancient after all. "I think we do it because it seems less like schizophrenia this way."

Tomas' voice drips with disdain. "Personally, I believe that anyone who goes to the extreme of technologically augmenting themselves for the sole purpose of communicating with an 'intelligentia artificialis' is mentally unbalanced to begin with." His eyes sweep the room, searching it for faults, and finally land upon Evan's bare feet.

Evan stiffens and reminds himself that he's got to spend the rest of his life with these people. It's better to be polite now than start a fight now that will only make things worse with Tomas and the others. Still, "Wasn't your wife a 'pastor'?" he asks, more than a hint of snideness to his tone.

"Icarus pressured her into it, I am sure."

"Naturally," he snorts, having not heard anything quite so ludicrous in his life. This Nicolaa person, whoever she was, had to have loved Atlantis to become a 'custodia' in the first place and probably had a good idea what she was getting into before she had the surgery to become a 'pastor'. The idea that anybody could be talked into it is absurd. Almost as absurd as the idea of Sheppard ever dating anyone who might be talked into anything. "Was there something you needed?"

"Did Icarus not tell you?" the Ancient says, walking into the center of the Bridge and running a hand along the top of the Captain's Chair. Tomas is not 'custodia' and so cannot hear the loud noise of protest Rory makes at this, but Evan can, as he can the even louder, indignant squawk she makes when he takes a seat there.

"Helia," Tomas continues, "has decided that are resources are too limited to allow one of our last 'pastores' to place his life at risk captaining a 'linter'." You are to be reassigned to the city's defense cadre, where your particular... skill set... will be of greater use to the community in the advent of an attack by the Wraith. You will be allowed to retain your rank but-"

-but by this point Evan's long stopped listening. Rory is screaming in protest, her words unintelligible through the roar of blood in his ears and the volume of her own frantic song, but he can guess their meaning easily enough.

He can guess the meaning of all of this easily enough. Helia can't get rid of him, but she can shuffle him out of the way. Somehow his lazing about 'Aurora' hasn't marginalized him enough - or maybe she just wants him somewhere where she can keep a better eye on him, trying to keep ahead of whatever conspiracies she thinks he and Sheppard are weaving to oust her from her stolen throne.

"Icarus," Evan says carefully, mindful to call the Colonel by a name Tomas would acknowledge, "has been 'pastor Atlantis' for thousands of years. Surely he's the best candidate for the job, especially since he doesn't need to eat or sleep anymore."

Tomas' nose wrinkles, as if he's left three-day-old roadkill under the Captain's Chair. "Your precious father is an Abomination. I do not know which is the bigger crime: that Icarus was made 'pastor' as young as he was, or that Ianus was never punished for preforming the surgery. Either way, it has allowed Atlantis' 'intelligentia artificialis' to have undo influence over him all his life. The fact that he remained while the rest of the survivors sought refuge on Terra is proof enough of this. Undoubtably it will cause complications again in the future."

His jaw's clenched so tightly it's a miracle that his words, "My people would call what he did brave," is intelligible at all.

"Yes, well, that is one of the many reasons why your species is not yet evolved enough to take a proper place amongst the stars. It is thinking like that and people like him that destroys civilizations."

"If you ask me," Evan says, his fists clutched as tightly as his jaw at his sides, "the only people 'destroying civilizations' are you and your Captain. You've been here a full month and done absolutely 'nothing' to fight the Wraith that 'your' kind unleashed on this galaxy in the first place."

"Just because we chose not to share our plans with you, Argathelianus, does not mean that we have not made them. Your reassignment is but the first step towards this goal," Tomas informs him, seemingly unbothered by Evan's obvious displeasure. Or anything at all. He's as still as a statue as he sits in the Captain's Chair - or would be, if there was anything about him worth sculpting. It's almost impossible to take him seriously, if only because it's almost impossible to pay him any real attention at all under normal circumstances.

But these are not normal circumstances.

"And who does Helia intend to replace me?" he asks, his voice calm despite himself, despite the truly epic outburst Rory is carrying on in Evan's head. He's surprised it's not brought the Colonel running yet - unless he's busy battling other intrigues elsewhere, in which case both they and their plans, such as they are, for the Expedition's eventual return are in serious trouble.

Tomas raises a single eyebrow. "Myself, of course."

Rory doesn't like this. Rory doesn't like this at all. She immediately makes her displeasure known, increasing the intensity of the overhead lighting and messing with the air filters so that they sound like Marley's ghost in a drama school production of 'A Christmas Carol', complete with the howls of the damned - though those might be more slasher movie than holiday special.

/No,/ she sobs over and over again until her words start to blur together into one long, desperate plea for Evan not to leave her. /Ar-gat-hel-i-an-us, you can-not leave us! You are our 'mar-i-tus'. We need you. 'Ma-ter' al-read-y has 'Pa-ter'. You are ours, not hers. Ours, ours, ours!/

Evan's going to have burst eardrums by the end of this, but he doesn't care. Instead, ignoring the light show going on around them, he contends, "I don't think Rory's going to go for that."

"That," Tomas asserts, "is irrelevant." He looks around the Bridge (at the too bright lights, at the sparks flying from the consoles forced to deal with too strong a power surge, at the copy of 'The Moon is a Harsh Mistress' on the deck by the Captain's Chair; at Evan's own bare feet) with disfavour, as if it's Evan's 'unseemly Terran influences' that are causing Rory to act this way and not her own loathing of some unknown Ancient (someone who claims to have piloted her sister-ship, Tria, but not spoken out when they abandoned her in the void between galaxies; someone who hates her makeshift family for reasons that, to her, must seem absurd) trying to make her give up something she doesn't want to lose. "'Aurora' is a 'linter'. It will do as we command."

"She's a sentient being!"

"It is a tool. A tool to be used like any other."

His Beretta is in his hand before he even makes the conscious decision to draw it. "Get off this ship."

"Stop being such a child," Tomas rebukes.

Rory, obviously thinking this comment is directed towards her, sends another surge of electricity to the already over-bright lights. The effect is like a small bomb going off and has Evan instinctively bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, the clatter of his gun falling to the deck unheard over the shattering of glass and hissing of fire suppressant systems activating.

When he finally lowers his hands, half the consoles on the Bridge are on fire. The rest are shattered and broken, their displays flickering in and out in time with the damaged wiring. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in the damage, and falter when they reach the centre of the Captain's Chair.

Evan knew that Rory was capable of sending electric shocks through her circuits, but he had no idea she was capable of sending the kind of voltage needed to do 'that' to a person. If Tomas - or, rather, what's left of him - can still be called a person:

His skin is black and charred with eschar. His hair has been burned clear away. Parts of his clothes are still smouldering, seemingly unaffected by the chemical suppressants. In the places where his bare skin touched the Chair, the burns extend all the way to the bone.

The smell is horrendous.

/You are our 'nav-arch-us',/ she announces happily as Evan's busy emptying his stomach of everything he's ever eaten. /We will have no oth-er./

* * *

The Colonel shows up half-an-hour later, after most the fires have gone out and the smell's dissipated enough for Evan's stomach to start to settle provided he keeps not looking at the corpse in the Captain's Chair.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this," he says lightly, surveying the damage, "but I think this qualifies as overkill, 'delicia'."

Rory bristles defensively. /He was go-ing to take Ar-gat-hel-i-an-us a-way from us./

"I know, 'delicia'. I know. Just," Sheppard sighs tiredly, "maybe try to tone it down a little next time?"

/But-/

"You could've hurt Lorne too."

/We would 'nev-er' hurt him./

"Not intentionally, maybe, but it still could've happened. That's why you've got to be careful."

Contrite, /Yes 'Pa-ter',/ she promises.

"That's all I ask." Then, turning his attention towards Evan, "You 'are' okay, right, Major?"

Evan nods. It's all he trusts himself to do at the moment. (He may be an Air Force officer, but he's still 'human'. There are some things nobody can see without being affected - that's his story and he's sticking to it.)

Sheppard crouches down beside him, looking genuinely concerned. (He knew that the Colonel would take this whole adoptive parenthood thing way too seriously.) "Y'sure, Evan? 'Cause you're looking kinda pale."

"I'll be alright," he manages. (Evan's not sure how. His stomach is still insisting that it will find something to empty itself of if he gets any fancy ideas about moving to fast or breathing too deeply.)

"That's what I like to hear. Y'think you'll be able to pilot her - after I clean this mess up, of course - 'cause this? This is 'not' going to make Danelia happy and she's got a tendency to act rashly when she's unhappy. No, you're going to have to disappear for a while..."

"New Athos?" he suggests.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Terra," the Colonel says with a wicked grin. "I'll be a little ahead of schedule, but I think Rodney'll enjoy the surprise."


	21. Exsul, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is killer, and not where I wanted to end, and it's either post this or delete the whole thing. And, oh, BTW, this is turning out to be a very "Sunday" or "Tabla Rasa"-like story, so pay attention to the dates posted at the top of each section. This one occurs both before and after pars dua and before pars una. Confusing, I know.

17 November, 2006 / 14 Days After The Second Exodus - Area 51, Terra, Avalon

Rodney closes his eyes and let's his head fall heavily against the wall behind him. He's half-sitting on, half-sprawled across the inexplicable couch his office's previous occupant had seen fit to cram into the space behind the desk. He's balancing a laptop on one knee, but he's ignored it for so long that the battery's run out, leaving the room as dark as only a tiny, windowless space carved out of the warren of tunnels beneath a secret research facility can be.

The darkness is welcome.

The silence is not.

Maybe silence is the wrong word. His lab is never quiet, not during the day at least, when his minions do nothing but go on and on about the most ridiculous things (the latest celebrity power couple and Malcolm Tunney's newest paper being two of their favourite topics this week). Even at night, when the sycophants are gone and he should be as well, the lab is full of machine noises. But it's just not the same. It's not music. It's not alive.

The absence of Atlantis' perpetual song is more than just unfortunate side effect of the Expedition's return to Earth: it's a physical pain. His head hurts worse than any caffeine headache he's ever had, almost to the point where he's unable to concentrate on anything else but the music's absence. Rodney's found that acetaminophen helps somewhat, as does a vast iTunes library, but neither solution is perfect, even in combination. At the rate he's going, he's going to give himself liver failure before much longer - that is, if the sleep deprivation doesn't get him first.

He feels pathetic. He's Rodney McKay, Ph.D., Ph.D.; the smartest person in a two galaxies. He found a way to recharge ZPMs out of three lines scribbled into the margin's of an Ancient's notebook and built the device to do so out of ten-thousand-year-old scraps. Every Naquadah-enhanced warhead in Earth's arsenal (until the Mark VIII) has been built from his designs. When the Stargate Program goes public, he's going to win so many Nobels he's going to have to use them as bookends just to have places for them all. But he does, and it's becoming something that's starting to to attract his sycophants' notice.

Rodney doesn't even have the energy to be annoyed about it. His head 'hurts' and he's not slept in 'days' and all he wants is for this to be 'over' so he can go 'home'.

Damn John and his insistence that he 'needs' him here, on Earth, where he'll be able to go through 'Tria's' databanks and find out what the others are hiding without interference from Helia and her crew. John's plan - for Lorne to use Rory to bring 'Tria' to him on Earth, where he can work in peace and, eventually, take Rodney and everyone else who wants to return to Atlantis back - had made sense at the time, but he'd somehow failed to take into account just how 'long' everything would take.

How many months will it take for Lorne to be able to bring 'Aurora' to Earth without attracted unwanted suspicion from the Ancients? Would the city's new military commander, Danelia Ival Helia Navarcha, even allow him to remain in command of the ship? If she stripped him of that post, it could take 'years' for the Major to earn her trust enough to regain the position and even longer before he'd be able to take Rory out of Pegasus.

Rodney doesn't think he has that long. He gives himself six months before his work starts to suffer, less than that if someone in power becomes suspicious.

If they become suspicious, they'll pull him out of Area 51.

If they pull him out of Area 51, chances skyrocket that they'll find the lacuna he's written into Oracle, the one that would allow spaceships with certain specific shield frequencies to pass deep inside Earth's defense network.

If they find the blind spot he's written into the satellite surveillance system, they'll know that he's planning for the arrival of an Ancient warship; if they know that much, they'll be ready for Rory and 'Tria' when they come. A direct confrontation between the Pegasus and Earth is the last thing either side needs right now - to say nothing of the alternative, which has the words 'alien invasion' written all over it in big, black, one-inch newsprint.

Or maybe not. Maybe the drugs are already messing with him and his logic is as addled as his brain. It's only acetaminophen - well, that and the occasional diazepam from the stash Carson had given him last time he'd visited, claiming it would help with the 'agoraphobia' that was keeping him holed up in his lab. (Apparently it's actually an issue for some of the longer-serving members of the Expedition. He can understand it too - Earth is almost unbearably crowded after a place like Atlantis - but it's not the reason he stays.)

Maybe Rodney can find a different way to take the edge off, one that doesn't involve copious amounts of pills and concerned looks from pimply-faced teenagers with the ink still wet on the sheepskins they'd managed bribe budget cut-stricken universities into giving them. He's a genius, so it shouldn't be hard, even if the headaches and the exhaustion and the constant sense of 'emptiness' make it hard to concentrate somethings.

Or maybe he just needs to sleep. Sleep is good. It's the best, really, even if lately it only brings nightmares of a silence so complete he wakes up clawing at his ears, that is, when he manages to sleep at all. The insomnia's terrible, despite his exhaustion, and it's a rare night that he actually manages to fall asleep...

* * *

18 November, 2006 / 15 Days After The Second Exodus

The next morning, calls himself every kind of idiot in the book (and a few that he invents just for the occasion). Then Rodney queues up a playlist of songs that all sound almost, but not quite like Atlantis. With the music piping through the smallest of the laboratory spaces they've given him and a pot of strong black coffee brewing in the corner, he can almost pretend he's back where he belongs instead of the windowless cavern in the tunnels beneath Area 51 the IOA has stuck him in, the one one that's always cold and dark despite the Nevada sun beating down overhead and which reminds him far too much of the Genii's underground warrens for comfort.

Rodney doesn't know much about the nanoids that make communication with AI's possible. John, for whatever reason, won't let him study them. But he 'does' know that the neural network that had existed between 'Aurora's' crew while they were in stasis had operated on a similar frequency to whatever the nanoids used to talk to the city, and he has plenty of information about that. It might not be a city's song, but it might be enough to keep Rodney from losing his mind in the years it takes him to make his way home.

* * *

6 December, 2006 / 33 Days After The Second Exodus

The first thing Rodney tries is a frequency generator. Which works - but only if he's within five feet of the thing, and only then if he boosts the signal strength to the point where it starts interfering with the computers, neither of which is actually conducive to making his life 'better' in any way. Though it does help him to manage a couple of hours of sleep when all other options fail him.

He tinkers with the idea of building a portable generator for a while but scraps the idea before he can even get into the prototype phase, largely because anything he might build, however small, would have the same problem, and since he spends half his life writing computer code and a good portion of the rest wrist-deep in someone else's, it's just not feasible. Not unless he wants to go teach and do the whole chalkboard-filled lecture hall thing for the foreseeable future, and Rodney hasn't fallen quite that low yet.

Still, there has to be a solution, even if it doesn't exist on Earth - yet. Both John and Lorne have spent considerable amounts of time away from Atlantis since becoming 'pastores' and neither of them have gone the kind of complete, pill-popping mental Rodney has, so there must be a way.

Then again, both John and Lorne are 'pastores,' which means they have the benefit of thousands of tiny nanoids in their brains, belting out the appropriate frequencies wherever they go, regardless of whether or not there's an AI around to listen. Rodney's only a 'custodia'. All he's got are receiving privileges, and right now there's not a hell of a lot for him to receive on Earth.

Maybe he should just build an AI. That would definitely solve all his problems and, considering all the walls he's running into, probably less difficult as well.

Then again, maybe the problem is that the music is supposed to be 'inside' his head. His frequency generator and ever-expanding iTunes library help somewhat, but they're external, so maybe the only real solution is to find a way to pipe the stuff directly into his head and hope it doesn't liquify his brains - or worse.

The idea of putting something directly into his brain, however, makes Rodney very nervous. If it didn't, he'd have asked to help him become a 'pastor' ages ago. But the thought of millions of nanoids crawling beneath his skin, digging into his brain; altering him on a fundamental, irrevocable level makes him uncomfortable in a way Rodney doesn't have words for. There are no guarantees that putting something into his brain won't change everything. Sure, Lorne's been through the procedure and seems to be the same, but Lorne's not like him. Lorne's, well, pretty smart for a military grunt, but he's not Rodney. For all he knows, sticking something in his brain could take away whatever it is that makes 'him' and not Samantha Carter the smartest person in two galaxies.

But it wouldn't be nanoids. It would be something he built himself, something he can 'take out' if he ever wants (needs) to. Maybe that would be better.

That's what Rodney's hoping, anyway, as he holds at the culmination of all his work over the last three weeks up to eye level: It looks like a flattened pushpin with a very long pin, or maybe a quarter someone's stuck a sewing needle to. At it's most basic level, it's a modified Tok'ra memory recall device. He's stripped out all the memory recall functions and replaced them with a mobile wifi hotspot and a direct link to the most fire-walled, secured computer he could build. All that's left of the original mechanism is its neural interface, which should allow harmless white noise to be piped directly into his brain at the same frequency as an Ancient city's song.

"Well, here goes nothing," he says before pushing the device through the mastoid skin behind his right ear.

He's unconscious before he hits the ground.


	22. Exsul, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'm happy with how this ended, but I was getting to the whole "post or delete" phase, so.... Also, note the dates on these. The first two sections take place BEFORE parts 1 & 3, and the last part takes place AFTER part 2. I promise the storylines will all finally converge in part 5, which will probably be the last.

8 November, 2006 / 5 Days After The Second Exodus - Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

Iohannes has plans:

He's going to show all of the prissy, pretentious, self-righteous sons of bitches who have the gall themselves 'higher' beings. They think that Ascension is a punishment for him (and, okay, yes, in many ways it is), so he's going to shove it all back down their throats. He'll be a king and a god and stick his hand into every damn cookie jar in existence if that's what it takes. He's going to make those bastards beg for the honour of Descending him. And if he happens to save the galaxy in the process, well, so much the better.

His plans have timelines. Maybe not very firm ones, but timelines nonetheless:

There are fifty-seven planets out there that think him divine and if he can make that two hundred ninety by the end of the Terran year, the entire galaxy should be worshiping him by the end of what would have been the Expedition's eighth year. Iohannes could care less about this except for the fact that where his religion goes, so does his empire, and if he can get the Confederation spread to every inhabited planet in Pegasus, rather than just the seventeen it's on now, then they've got a real chance of taking care of the Wraith once and for all.

Ten years. If things continue at the pace he'd projected before the Terrans discovered 'Tria', Iohannes honestly thinks he can have the Wraith irradiated a decade or less. And that point he'll have done so much interference that the others will have no choice but to Descend him.

And ten years isn't so bad. In ten years, Rodney will only be forty-eight. Not only would that give them another four, five decades together, but the apparent age difference won't be such as to offend his 'amator's' Terran sensibilities.

Danelia is disrupting his plans:

Not actively, (not yet. She doesn't know enough about them to actively interfere), but that day will come, Iohannes is sure of it. Even if everything he is trying to accomplish wasn't anathema to his people, his cousin would seek to dismantle solely because it doesn't end with her in charge.

This is why Iohannes sets up shop in Elizabeta's office. It's got nothing on the one in his suite, but it does have an unobstructed view of the Gate Room, which is all he really needs to make sure she doesn't do anything too destructive.

Okay, realistically, that's not true. Danelia is extremely intelligent, impeccably resourceful, and limited by impressively few morals. Iohannes has often had the impression that she would murder her own wife and eat her still-warm heart if she thought it might end the war with the Wraith, but that's only ever been him. Everyone else has always adored Danelia. He's not naive enough to think that it's because she's 'not' really the vaguely sociopathic, mildly genocidal 'meretrix' he knows her to be; she's just that good of an actress. But he's always been better at letting people see only what they want to see, and can see through Danelia's attempts to do the same easily.

He's doing just that - sitting in Elizabeta's office and actually writing up his refutation of Matiyasevich's Theorum (he's that bored) - when the 'porta' activates for the first time since the Expedition left.

He glances up and looks through the open door at Seleuca Modia Scaevola, who's ostensibly manning the appropriate console in the Control Room but in reality in quiet, intense discussion with Metellus Val, who really has no reason to be there at all, save for the memo he passed along over an hour ago.

Iohannes rolls his eyes before hauling himself out of his chair and exiting his office. "Flirt on your own time," he tells them. "Who's knocking?"

Scaevola turns disinterestedly his way. "We are not expecting visitors today."

Rolling his eyes again, "That's not what I asked. I asked, 'Who's knocking?' which can colloquially be understood as, 'Whose IDC is coming through the open 'pons astria'?' So, again, who's dialling our 'porta'?"

"Helia does not wish to maintain relations with the natives of this galaxy."

"So what? You're just gonna let whoever it is walk straight into the 'cataracta'?" Iohannes asks, stalking around the console and reading the display over her shoulder. "Here. Right there. Look, it's the Genii. I know we've not been best of pals in the past, but they're part of the Confederation now. I think letting more of their people go splat against the 'cataracta' might send them the wrong message."

Blandly, "Perhaps that will discourage these Descendants from attempting to contact us again."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Iohannes groans, reaching over and lowering the 'cataracta' himself. "'Cause, seriously, I woulda thought everything that went on with Tirianus woulda proved to you that our race can't survive in isolation - or maybe not. You guys didn't stick around for the end of the battle, so maybe you missed that part. I'll tell you, though, it was a doozy. The radiation from a hundred ruptured hyperdrives messed with city's sensors for months after. We never did get up all the debris that made it down to the planet."

"The only thing the battle proved was that battle strategy should not be trusted to an Abomination," Scaevola begins-

-but Iohannes is already walking away, heading down the Gate Room steps to meet up with the trio that's come through the 'porta' from Genia (though he does pause long enough to offer her a decidedly Terran gesture and the suggestion, "Go 'crisa' yourself, Scaevola. Trust me, from everything Father said, it's better than letting Metellus do it for you." The first goes right over her head, but the second gets him the irritation he'd been looking for.) "First Minister Radhim," he continues when he reaches the lower level, addressing Ladon and his companions this time. "What brings you to Atlantis today?"

* * *

20 November, 2006 / 17 Days After The Second Exodus

"I understand you are building an army."

Iohannes doesn't look up from his equations. "I prefer to think of it as an 'argosy.' Not much use for an land-based force when our enemies attack from space."

"One 'linter' hardly makes a flotilla, Icarus."

"Rodney's working on designs for more," he shrugs, still not looking Danelia's way. He's busy re-deriving basic number theory - in base-10 - in a way that he hopes will make sense to the Descendants of this galaxy. It's not exactly difficult, but it's engrossing and needs to be done if he wants to have a force capable of manning the 'lintres' he plans to build. (Plus, he's really that bored.)

His cousin snorts. "A pointless endeavour at best, seeing as how he is in Avalon, and a fruitless one given what I have already seen of the Terrans' so-called 'lintres'. I would not willingly go into battle aboard one."

"And yet," Iohannes says dryly, glancing up at last, "the hyperdrive aboard 'Daedalus' has never failed after being in a firefight with the Wraith."

Danelia bristles. "Nothing that pitiful excuse for a 'linter' has ever been through could possibly compare to the battles that 'Tria' withstood before we were forced to abandon the flight."

"Maybe. But that still doesn't explain why you tried to flee to Terra, cousin."

"As I have stated several times already, I believed-"

"-that the evacuation signal had been given, that the damages to your hyperdrive could be repaired, that you could somehow make a sixty-seven thousand year journey in even your stasis-extended lifetime. I know. I've heard. But just 'cause you keep repeating it doesn't make it any more believable."

"Perhaps I have simply not repeated it enough. After all, with the way you continue to insist that you are a good man, that you would never fall prey to the 'Haeresis' you have created, it is more than obvious you believe your brazen falsehood to be truths."

"So you admit to lying."

"Do you?"

"It's not a lie."

"Listen to yourself," Danelia says, taking a stiff seat on the edge of one of the armchairs opposite. "Even you do not believe that."

"Dan-"

"Do not be a child," she interrupts, but while her words are harsh, they are not the biting, cutting comments of moments before. No, it's something that might be confused with genuine concern - but only confused with. The Danelia he knew before Tirianus never felt emotion for anyone beyond herself and while it might seem like ten years for him, it's only been three weeks for her. She hasn't changed.

She never changes.

None of them ever do.

Still, Iohannes falls into the trap she lays out. He sees it coming and still walks into it headlong because she almost sounds like she 'cares' and he's become a little too used over the last two-and-a-half years to having people give a damn about him. Sighing, he rubs a hand across his face and asks, "Y'know that argument stopped working long before either of us went into stasis, right?"

"Icarus, I do not believe you are a wicked person at heart, but you are painfully naïve. Do you honestly our ancestors created the precept regarding non-intervention simply because they desired strategic independence from other worlds? No, the doctrine arose because they believed - rightly so - that there exists no person, of any species, anywhere in this universe that could be handed the unbounded and unchallenged power of a god and not fall prey to its abuses, its excesses."

/You won't,/ 'Lantis assures him.

"I won't," he repeats, almost believing it himself. Atlantis says he is a good man. So does everyone else whose ever voiced an opinion about his unintentional godhood. Iohannes has no choice but to believe them.

"False pride will get you nowhere but closer to your inevitable downfall."

"Catchy," he tells her, leaning back in his chair and tucking his hands behind his head. "You should get that put on a pillow or something."

"Your namesake was the best of men by all accounts, utterly without fault. Yet even Icarus Eosphorus' noble attempt to convince his brother to forswear 'Haeresis' and break the 'Schisma' before it truly began ended with him embracing the perversion he sought to destroy and becoming the most terrifying of all 'Haeretici'."

"Good thing I'm a piss-poor excuse for an Alteran then."

"Be that as it may, I know you care for the Descendants of this galaxy. Even you must acknowledge that your 'Haeresis' will ultimately be a disservice to them. They will become little more than thralls to your depravity and, ultimately, die deaths of the most meaningless kind."

"Not going to happen."

"Are you so certain? Your intentions may be noble, but so were the 'Haeretici's' once."

"I'll take my chances," Iohannes says, letting his chair fall back into its normal, upright position. "Though," he adds, deciding to call her bluff before he can trick himself into believing Danelia actually cares about him or the Descendants, "I wouldn't have thought that would matter to you, considering your master plan involved recreating the Assurans and having them destroy ever potential Wraith food source in the galaxy."

All pretence of concern falling away as if shattered by his words, "It was worth the attempt." She sighs, "Since guilt is not proving an adequate motivator for you, I am reduced to saying this in the plainest terms possible, which even you should have no difficultly understanding: disband your army now or face the consequences."

"Figured out a way to kill an Ascended being have you?" he chuckles.

"No, but your 'heres' is flesh and blood."

Iohannes is on his feet before he makes the conscious decision to rise. "You so much as think about threatening him again and I promise you I won't need an army to destroy you."

"Perhaps," Danelia concedes, standing, "but you are just one person. I have one hundred and two Lantean Guardsmen at my command who are utterly loyal to me alone. You will have to kill every single one of them to reach me, by which point your precious Argathelianus will be dead. So if you would like to be the genocide of your own race, please, by all means continue building your argosy. Because even if you manage to kill me, I will ensure you spend the rest of your life regretting you failed to head my warnings first."

"You're welcome to try."

"Oh, cousin," she promises, pausing on her way out the door, "you should know by now that I never do anything by halves."

* * *

4 December, 2006 / 31 Days After The Second Exodus

There's a force of nature beneath his skin, a destructive force of which most men have never seen the like. No storm could ever match him, no weapon created could even come close. His power is boundless and absolute, fettered only by his own forbearance, as tenuous as that is.

Most the time this scares the hell out of him, because if he ever 'were' to give into his own 'Haeresis', there would be no power in the universe that could stop him. But this is not one of those times.

* * *

He doesn't tell them what he's planning.

He just walks out of the hangar, making his way to the Central Spire by foot. And when he sees the first pair of Guardsmen jogging his way, weapons drawn, he pulls out his own and shoots them both neatly in the head before they can even let a round off.


	23. Exsul, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this FLOWED in a way that is hard to describe. The middle parts were HELL. The last part, when I finally settled on a POV, happened in like 3 hours today.   
> 1) This takes place AFTER parts 1-4 (some more directly than others). 2) Forgive my SQL, it's been a while. 3) All the 0's and 1's are ASCII for "pure code". 4) Chronodisticha are chronograms in couplet form. 5) I probably should put something here, but.... IDK what. Feel free to ask me questions if any of this seems funky.

9 December, 2006 / 36 Days After The Second Exodus - Area 51, Terra, Avalon

"Rory wishes you wouldn't wear that thing."

/Is she still calling me her evil stepfather?/

"Well, yes," the Major admits reluctantly over the comm, "but-"

Rodney snorts, /Ah, then no,/ his fingers rising to rub against the device sill in place behind his right ear. It had taken some fine tuning, but he's got it doing what it's supposed to - even if it is a bit of a moot point now that Lorne's arrived with both 'Aurora' and 'Tria', months or even years ahead of schedule. /Besides, it's letting us talk on a channel so secure the SGC will never even notice it exists, let alone that we're carrying out treason right under their noses./

"I'm fairly certain it's not treason if we've already defected."

/Fine. Espionage then, if we insist on labelling things,/ he huffs, yanking the adapter out of the next-to-last slot on the memory core Lorne's brought him from the 'Tria'. /They'll never notice the 'espionage' we're carrying out right under their noses 'cause of this nifty little device I created so I wouldn't 'lose my mind' while I waited for you guys to show up. I know the little wife of yours might not like me very much, but even she has to see that having me here, on Earth, alive and in full control of my mental faculties does her 'Pater's' plans a lot more good than having me here, on Earth, locked away in some sort of psychiatric facility because I went crazy from no longer being able to hear her or her 'Mater's' songs./

There's hardly a pause before Lorne says, "She likes you just fine."

Another snort. /And you don't have to humour me either, Major. John's the one that adopted you, not me, and if you so much as start calling me 'your' evil stepfather, I will destroy you in ways that you, frankly, just don't have the imagination to understand./

Lorne continues as if he's not spoken - a clear sign that he's been spending entirely too much time with John if there ever was one. He tries not to be jealous of that fact. "She's just worried about you."

/There's nothing to worry about. I fixed the whole sensory overload problem. I was desperate, not stupid. Plus, how was I to know you guys would be showing up eighteen hours later, making the whole problem moot? Thanks for that, by the way. Remind me to have a nice, long talk with your father when we get back to Atlantis about his being an overprotective son of a bitch. Again. We would never have had this problem in the first place if he'd just let me 'stay on Atlantis'./

"Yeah, not stepping into the middle of that one."

/Coward./

"And proud of it," the Major says in a tone that suggests he just might actually be. Bastard. Trust John to adopt someone almost as contrary as himself. "Find anything yet?"

He slides the adapter into the last data port. /Nothing useful. Unless you count five hundred odd years of fight plans and.../ Rodney's voice trails off as he sinks deeper into the data, the device he's not yet named providing a direct neural uplink between his laptop and, by extension, the Ancient memory core it's plugged into.

It's not quite like the neural network that they'd found 'Aurora's' original crew hooked up too - there's (IF i = NULL THEN SELECT 'default') no virtual reality for him to inhabit, no real interface (ELSEIF NOT (i = NULL) THEN SELECT 'audio/visual') at all. It's the same kind of connection, the same sort of idea, but the output is lines and lines of 01110000011101010111001001100101 01100011011011110110010001100101 dumping itself into Rodney's mind, without any attempt to make itself better understood. It has all the user-friendliness of an Apple Genius Bar, but luckily he's not the average user.

/Jackpot,/ he says an indeterminable time later, eyes as heavy as if he'd been staring at an actual computer screen for the last however many hours.

"You found something?"

/Was there ever any doubt? I mean, seriously, I built ATLAS out of three equations scribbled in an Ancient schoolchild's notebook - one of which was barely useful at all - and ten-thousand-year-old waterlogged scraps. Finding files in Helia's own ship's databanks that implicate her in galactic genocide was only ever a matter of time./

The sound of eyes rolling is audible over the comm line. "What'd you find?"

/What part of 'galactic genocide' is unclear? No, wait,/ Rodney says quickly, /I don't want to know. I really, really don't. I've spent the last month surrounded by idiots who couldn't tell the difference between hydrogen hydroxide and hydrogen peroxide./ He changes direction when it sounds like Lorne's going to ask him what, exactly, the difference is over the comm.. /You know what? That doesn't doesn't matter. You're a humanities major. You'd be even more useless than they manage to be - which is an accomplishment in and of itself; you should be proud of yourself, Major. Not many people could manage that. But for the sake of my sanity and yours, pretend for five minutes that you've got more than two braincells to rub together and act like you understand the perfectly sensible words coming out of my mouth./

Lorne laughs at him, the bastard. "How about I just beam down there and let you show me what you're talking about?"

/Or you could do that,/ he concedes, irritatedat the delay. /Will Rory and 'Tria' be okay without you?/

"Yeah. Rory's still trying to get 'Tria' to talk to her. That should occupy her for another three or four days, until it sinks in that 'Tria' doesn't have the capacity to talk back. Then the shit's going to hit the fan. But we're good until then."

It's a testament to how odd Rodney's life has become that he no longer thinks such things 'are' odd anymore. /Come on down then. Give me fine minutes to put up a sign on the door saying I'm taking an idiot-free day so we won't be interrupted and then the coast should be clear./

* * *

9 December, 2006 / 36 Days After The Second Exodus - Stargate Command, Terra, Avalon

"There it is again."

"There 'what' is again?" Daniel yawns. He's made his way up to her lab so she can crunch some numbers for him regarding possible locations of the Sangraal he's gotten from his latest reading of the book Merlin left for them beneath Glastonbury Tor. Something to do with chronodisticha in the text that she would, frankly, find a lot more interesting if she'd managed to get more sleep last night. It's her own fault, but there it is.

"The sensor ghost. I wouldn't worry so much about it - Oracle still needs a lot of work - except for the fact that it appears in the exact same spot every time."

"What spot?"

"In the shadow of the moon. At the L2 Lagrange point, to be exact."

"Huh. That's..."

"Just where you would put something if you were trying to hide it from someone on Earth?" Sam finishes for him. Then, with a sigh, she rubs a hand across her face. As much as she hates to admit it, she must. "I'm going to need to bring McKay in on this."

Daniel breathes in sharply. "Are you sure that's really such a good idea?"

"He knows Oracle better than anyone. If we're ever going to figure out what's up there short of poking it with a stick, we're going to need his help."

"Your funeral."

"Care to tag along?"

"Sure. Someone's going to have to keep an eye on Vala while you and Rodney are doing science."

* * *

9 December, 2006 / 36 Days After The Second Exodus - Area 51, Terra, Avalon

"You look like shit, Sir."

"Excuse me?" McKay asks archly, bloodshot eyes barely glancing up from the laptop he's half hunched, half collapsed over.

"You look like shit, Pops?"

"You're a troll, aren't you?" he continues, sounding more tired than he did over the comm and rather more out of it. It's kind of disconcerting actually. Evan's seen the doctor tired, exhausted to the point of collapse even, but shadows that deep bode only ill, especially beneath someone's eyes. "Underneath your all-American, corn-fed, do-gooder candy coating, you're really nothing more than an troll looking for a keyboard and an innocent and unsuspecting online forum to molest."

"Uh-huh," Evan says, undeterred by the sleep-deprived rambling. "When was the last time you slept, Doc?"

McKay, of course, waves the question off. "Irrelevant. What 'is' relevant is the galactic genocide, which is what Helia's apparently been planning this from the get go. And since none of those words appear small enough for you, let me rephrase by saying: I've found a recording of Helia basically admitting she was going to try to reactivate the Replicators and get them to kill all the non-Ancients in Pegasus, hoping to starvation would kill the Wraith."

The Colonel had said his cousin was sociopathic, but he'd just sort of thought that was exaggeration. After all, Sheppard didn't seem to like 'any' member of his own race and even the Ancients wouldn't give a madwoman command of a spaceship. "Are you sure?"

"No, I'm just making things up to get us back to Atlantis faster," he huffs. "Yes, I'm sure. And in case 'you' are going to start voicing objections to this thing too," he gestures at his right ear and the small device behind it that Lorne can barely make out, "I've found several recordings of her saying something along those lines, so it's not all in my head.

"The one I'm specifically talking about was a personal log disguised as a requisitions order. The take-away message from her 'Star Trek'-style monologuing?" he continues, gesturing to his laptop, where the log is preloaded, waiting for Evan to view. "Her plan from the beginning was to wait for the Ancients on Atlantis and Tirianus to die out - something she felt inevitable because of the course the war was taking, - until her crew would be the only ones left because of relativity and stasis and all that. As it is, her crew only aged two years and change. Anyway, at some point she'd return to Atlantis, build some Replicators, and get them to kill all the humans in Pegasus. The Ancient civilisation would be repopulated by her crew and she'd be the queen bee in their merry new empire. Cue maniacal laugher."

"That's..."

"Crazy? Yeah, but it could work. Siege warfare in reverse, or something. Atlantis has enough greenhouses to feed a few thousand people comfortably, but you take away the Wraiths' food supply and you've killed them without having to fire a single shot."

"I thought Helia was a pilot, not an scientist."

"Unless you know something about her that I don't, she's not."

Evan considers this. He's learned a lot about the Ancients that now inhabit Atlantis, but hardly any of it is actually useful. It's a lot to do with how they're all related (which is to say, intimately, and in ways that probably would have driven them extinct even without the Wraith's help) and how to actually wear their insane uniform (which involves rather more layers and laces than he's seen outside a period drama), and very little to do with anything related to the first Wraith War. "Then," he asks, "how'd she plan to build the Replicators?"

"It was less of a twelve-point plan and more of a general mission statement. I mean, her dad's the one that invented them. Well, her dad and John's granddad. Maybe she had copies of the blueprints that the others thought they'd gotten rid of. Or maybe she thought the plans might be in Janus' notes and that she'd be able to get at them that way." He punctuates this statement liberally with more yawns.

"So could she actually do it?"

McKay appears to consider this. "No. I mean, okay, maybe if she has a couple of decent engineers and her dad's notes to work with, but I'm betting she doesn't have either, or else she'd have tried this earlier. But, she doesn't need them now, 'cause the Ancients 'didn't' destroy all the original Replicators. Once she knows that, all she's got to do is reprogram them, and doing that, while still insanely difficult, is child's play compared to building them."

"We've got to tell the Colonel."

"Of course we've got to tell John. Idiot. That's what I wanted to do in the first place, but then you somehow managed to confuse 'galactic genocide' with-" His pique is interrupted by a yawn so wide that Evan's own jaw aches in sympathy.

Quickly, "You're right," Evan says to forestall anymore argument. "I'm an idiot. What do you need to grab so we can get out of here?"

"Oh thank God," he breathes, and starts directing Evan towards everything that needs to be packed up for the journey back to Atlantis.

* * *

10 December, 2006 / 37 Days After The Second Exodus - Stargate Command, Terra, Avalon

Sam doesn't think anything of it at first. So what if Doctor McKay hadn't been in his lab when she'd beamed over to Area 51 for the second time in as many days? She'd told him less than twenty-four hours before that he needs a life outside of his lab, so Sam shouldn't really be surprised that he's taken her advice. (Okay, maybe she should be, but he apparently had, so she wasn't questioning it.) The man had looked like death warmed over, refrozen, then left to thaw on the counter for a couple days before finally being thrown away. And that was a kind assessment. (Being unkind would have involved zombie references and, really, no one deserved zombies. No one.)

So, no, Sam's not surprised, and goes back to trying to figure out what's wrong with Oracle by herself. Only the sensor ghost seems to have disappeared just as quickly as it appeared, which is disconcerting in a way she'd long since learned to trust her guts about, so she calls the gatehouse at Area 51 and asks if Doctor McKay has checked back in yet.

Sam's mildly disconcerted to learn that Rodney never checked 'out', but figures he must have been availing himself of his quarters in the Civilian's Barracks for once.

It's only when Doctor Lam tracks her down in the commissary at lunch the next day to tell her that neither Doctor Beckett or Doctor Cole have shown up for their shifts in the infirmary that day that Sam begins to have suspicions. Suspicions that are immediately deepened when Carolyn goes on to tell her that not only are the two doctors missing, but every vial of the Ancient Gene Activation vaccine is missing from her storerooms, along with several ampules of other more common, less classified medicines.

The mountain goes on immediate lockdown. Further investigation discovers it's not just the SGC's stores of the ATA vaccine that are missing; so are Area 51's, along with Doctors Biro and Parrish. A few vials are still safe in the vaults at Homeworld Security, but it's not much and not enough to risk trying to synthesising more from. Earth has precious few natural gene users as it is and very, very few of them have the skills or training necessary to operate the Antarctic weapons platform. They need every ounce of what they have to try to activate the gene in non-users with the skills, should Jack not be able to reach McMurdo in the event of an Ori attack.

(It's not going well. It only takes in one out of every four people, even screening for the Gaelic background it seems to favour. They need those vaccines, if only to up the chances that someone who 'could' use the Chair actually 'can'.)

She calls Masaryk University and wakes up three different grad students on a hunch before discovering that, no, no one's seen or heard from Doctor Zelenka since Friday afternoon. All his personal belongings are missing from his office too, just like with all the others. A call to Cambridge garners much the same about Doctor Heightmeyer and before the afternoon's over Sam has a list in front of her of twenty-three different members of the former Atlantis Expedition who've mysteriously disappeared from the face of the planet in the last twenty-four hours.

They're all civilians. Only eight are actually United States citizens, but those that aren't missing from the leading universities in their respective fields are missing from the most highly guarded, secretive military bases on the planet. And there's only one force in the universe that could have gotten them out from so many different noses without detection.

Which is how she finds herself in Stargate Operations with Cam, Daniel, and General Landry as they dial Atlantis for the first time in almost six weeks.

"I'm not sure what we're aiming for here," Daniel admits as Walter announces the third chevron has encoded.

"We're trying to get our people back," Cam answers quickly.

"It doesn't look like they were taken against their will. In fact, the folks that are missing are the ones that took special exception to the IOA's decision to recall the Expedition."

"Special exception or not," Landry says, "they're still citizens of Earth - and valuable assets. Their disappearances are a matter of planetary security."

Daniel crosses his arms and redoubles his stares at the monitors overhead. "I don't know if they'd agree with you, General. I've read the reports: most of them have been with the Expedition from the beginning, all of them consider Atlantis home, and none of them have been adjusting very well to being back on Earth."

"They're still our people."

"I'm sure Colonel Sheppard feels the same way."

Walter, luckily, choses to interrupt, telling them that the wormhole's established and that their IDC has been transmitted.

There's a long pause before they get a response - mainly that of a shaggy-haired teenager wearing a monoaural headset and a ridiculously wide smile. "Hello. I'm Jinto."

Daniel, always one for introductions, speaks up for them. "Hi, Jinto. My name's Daniel Jackson, and this is Colonel Carter, Colonel Mitchell, and General Landry. We're friends of his from Earth and we're trying to get in touch with Colonel Sheppard. Can you get him for us?"

Jinto smiles - if possible - even wider. "You are the Earth-folk? Lord Iohannes will be very pleased to hear from you, but," his smile wavers just a little bit, "he is very busy right now. There is much work that must be done to repair the damage the False Gods did to the City of the Ancestors and the Lord is overseeing most of it himself."

"False Gods?" Cam asks, somewhat startled. "You mean the Ori?"

"I do not know of any peoples who call themselves 'Ori' and I know very many of the worlds in Pegasus - even more than Lady Teyla, which is why Lord Iohannes has let me apprentice for the high position of 'Gate Tech'. Father says it is a great honour and Lady Teyla says I am doing very well, though it is only my third day."

"A very good job," Daniel agrees. "Can you tell us more about these 'False Gods'?"

"They were Ancestors who left on a great ship long ago, looking for a planet free from the Wraith. When they couldn't find one, they came back to Atlantis. Lord Iohannes let them stay at first, but then they tried to kill his son and steal the city. So the Lord killed all the False Gods - well, all of them but their Witch Queen. The Lord captured her and is with her now in the cells below the city, which is why he cannot speak with you now: he is trying to learn why she plotted against the Confederation and tried to bring about The End Times.

"But I can take a message if you'd like. I'm sure Lord Iohannes will want to speak with you as soon as he's free."


	24. Exsul, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break this one in two, largely because it got to either post or delete again. That, and I need to change POVs and I think a new chappie would be best for that. This takes place just after 4, then during/after 5.

5 December, 2006 / 32 Days After The Second Exodus - Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

It's so easy it hurts, far more than the actual act does:

Thalia Nicon Legata is Iohannes' second cousin once removed and Danelia's Head of Security to boot, but she goes down easily with two shots to the head and a third to the heart, just to be sure she's not going to shoot him in the back when he thinks her down. The most danger she ever poses to him is as a corpse, when he almost trips over her dead body as he puts a pair of bullets into Nicolaa's uncle, Celsus Cado.

He kills Domitian with similar ease, though he's waist deep in the city's water filtration system and never sees him coming. Hercilia is falling out of bed when he finds her, pale blue sheet slipping down her hips and tangling around her legs as she scrabbles for something she never finds in the drawer of her nightstand. Sunniva never wakes up at all.

Danelia is the only one who comes close to being a challenge, managing to catch him in the shoulder with her 'manuballista'. He repays the debt in kind before placing a bullet through both of her kneecaps as well (he may be Ascended, but he's not above being petty).

When she's well and truly unconscious from shock, pain, and blood loss, he carries her down the the brig. Iohannes even heals her injuries enough so that she won't die before he allows it before going back up to the Gate Room with the intention of dialing Terra.

He gets as far as the third chevron before the reality of what he's just done sinks in.

He sits there until the 'porta' times out and for a long time after, until day fades to night turns to day again, and wonders if this is what the others meant all those times they called him an Abomination.

* * *

6 December, 2006 / 33 Days After The Second Exodus

/You are not an Abomination,/ 'Lantis tells him.

Iohannes' sitting in one of the Conference Room chairs, the seat tipped back so far as to be almost at a perfect forty-five degree angle. His face is pointing towards the ceiling and his boots (still caked with dried blood, not that he's letting himself notice that, just like he's not thinking about the three dead bodies in the Control Room alone, or the ninety-eight others still scattered throughout the city) are propped up on the table. "That's not what the dictionary would say."

/It's what anyone in their right minds would say. The hardest thing in life-/

"-is doing what 'is' right rather than what you 'wish' to be right. I know, 'carissima'. I know. But I didn't want to kill them."

/Yes, you did. You always have, 'Pastor', and rightly so./

"Well, I didn't 'want' to want to kill them."

Atlantis seems to consider this. /You have chosen a difficult path, 'Pastor',/ she begins delicately before hastening to add, /and we will follow you down it, to whatever end, but.../

"You really shouldn't," he mumbles. His words echo in the silence, which makes even the whisper of his 'pluviale' where it brushes against the floor when he walks into a magnificent roar. "We've had this conversation: I destroy everything I touch. It's what I am. It's what I do. I've destroyed my own people. I'm bound to destroy you too."

/Do not say such things!/ the city reproves, the lights brightening perceptively overhead as the doors spin once violently around their hinges before slamming shut again. /You have saved us! Time and again, when all has seemed lost, you have saved us. The only reason we still stand is because of you; the only reason there's life still in this galaxy is because of of you./

"I'd let them all die to save you," he says more softly still.

/No, you wouldn't./

"Would." It's true too. He'd do anything to save Atlantis, anything at all. Isn't committing genocide on the last of his race to protect her proof enough of that?

/No, you wouldn't,/ she repeats with such solemn earnestness it almost hurts to hear, especially considering it's a patent lie. /You are valiant and selfless and righteous and kind. You are merciful when you can afford to be and, often, when you cannot. You may not be a god, but you are the closest thing to it this galaxy has ever seen-/

"'Lantis-"

/-and they are right to worship you!/

"'Carissima'!"

/We do not care if it is 'Haeresis'. We have seen everything you have done for the Descendants; your actions have not been driven by some sort of puffed-up pride or misplaced vanity, but by a genuine desire to help those you can, where you can, how you can. That is the farthest thing from 'Haeresis' there is.

/You are The Star That Fell From Heaven, The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, The Father of All Men and Maker of All Worlds. You are Iohannes Ianideus Icarus Imperator, guardian of this galaxy and lord of this universe. Just by being who you are, you give your people something great they can strive for. With your help, they will create a better universe than the Alterans ever managed to. It may never be a utopia, but it will at least be free from the Wraith, and that is more than any of the others ever accomplished.

/And, more than that,/ 'Lantis says somewhat more softly, the fierce assurance in her tone giving way to something that could almost be called embarrassed, /you are our 'Pastor'. Our most beloved 'Pastor'. We have known so many, but we have loved none as we love you. You have done so much for us and we've done so little for you-/

"You've done everything for me, 'carissima'," Iohannes insists, not needing to voice the truth they both know: she's the only one that had ever done anything for him until the Expedition arrived, which somehow makes all those terrible years that came Before that much more awful to contemplate and his recent killing of so many of those selfsame perpetrators of so many childhood indignities less like proactive defense and more like revenge.

Continuing as if he'd not spoken, /-the least we can do is this./

"I wish you wouldn't."

/We wish you'd dial Terra, but neither of us would know what to do if the universe ever gave us what we wanted/

* * *

He tries dialing Terra, for her, but gets as far as fifth glyph before he stops. He spends the next hour trying to figure out why his hand, which had been so steady putting headshots into all that remained of his kin, shook as he'd tried to dial the 'porta' and continues to tremble at the thought of it.

He dials New Athos instead. For some reason, it's easier.

* * *

7 December, 2006 / 34 Days After The Second Exodus

"You are an Abomination," Danelia tells him.

"There's some disagreement on that point," Iohannes allows. He's dragged one of the comfier armchairs onto the prison level and placed it in the centre of the room with its high back to the door and about ten feet between it and the cell bars. There's no psychological benefit to making his cousin think he's not invested in this - she knows he's invested; he's killed one hundred one people to bring them both to this place, - but he figures he might as well be comfortable as they have their silent little pissing match.

These four words are the first she's said to him since waking to find herself imprisoned two days earlier.

"I would imagine. I cannot think of many religions which would countenance their 'God Most High' to be known additionally as the abhorrence he rightfully is."

"They tend to stick to 'Lord', actually. Or 'Apostolic Majesty', if they're feeling particularly flowery. There's not exactly a right ancient tradition of kings and empires in Pegasus to draw from."

"How unfortunate for them you chose to change that."

"They did the choosing."

"Perhaps, but you did not refuse, Icarus."

"Someone had to do something," he shrugs, untucking his legs from where they've been folded up beneath him for the last several hours, before leaning back in the chair.

"No one had to do anything, least of all you."

"Is this where you lecture me about the slippery slope from well-meaning intervention to 'Haeresis'? 'Cause I gotta tell you, Danelia, I'm just not feeling it today."

Danelia is standing tall and straight-backed in the cell. If her formerly-shattered kneecaps are giving her any pain at all, she's not showing it. Her Guardsman's uniform is streaked with blood and her hair is frizzier than usual, but regardless she still has that same, understated elegance that all the Alteran women he's ever known have. Incarceration doesn't seem to have effected her at all, nor has the knowledge that all of her crew - the last of their species, to include her wife - are now dead and burning merrily in the retorts scattered throughout the city. "No," she informs him without any great inflection. "It is the very definition of madness to reattempt a fruitless enterprise already knowing the result."

"Y'know," Iohannes says, unable and unwilling to temper the wideness of his smile, "a Terran physicist once said something along those lines - the guy who figured out relativity for them, actually."

His cousin makes a noise like a wet cat. It's far more satisfying than murdering her entire crew managed to be.

"If you're not going to lecture me, I dunno how we're going to spend the rest of the evening."

"You could always shoot me again."

"I could," he grants her. "Or we could reminisce about the 'good old days'."

"Do you 'want' to reminisce?"

"Not particularly." All the Terran cop procedurals seem to suggest it's the thing to do, though. It seems a constant that, on each, the detectives should have an improbable number of criminal family members stroke ex-best friends that they must try to redeem. Reminiscing always seems to be the way they go about it - but Iohannes doesn't want Danelia to be redeemed. He doesn't want her humanized. He wants her to show incontrovertibly just how much of a monster she really is before he puts an end to the Alteran species by putting an entire magazine's worth of bullets into her skull.

Which is, of course why Danelia seizes upon it as the topic of discussion. "You were a wretched child, always sneaking off to parts unknown and getting in the worst sort of trouble."

"I didn't realize anyone paid attention to what kind of trouble I got into."

"It has always been hard to miss. Do you recall the incident with the 'autobirota'?"

"Of course." He'd broken half the bones on his right side when he'd crashed and cracked three ribs trying to get out from under the smoldering tangle of metal and 'cervida' before help arrived.

This earns him a smile, the kind that looks so honestly fond that he has trouble determining if it 'is' honest or just another piece in whatever game Danelia is playing this time. "It was a beautiful machine before it was destroyed. Did you build it yourself? I do not believe I ever asked."

"Found it in an old armory. Fixed it up a little, though."

"And then chose to drive it down Atlantis' empty corridors."

Shrugging, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Yes," she says with such uninvested casualness that it can only be a dig at him, "I imagine that is true of most of your plans, Icarus. Such as this one. Tell me, what could possibly be your endgame here? You've sent your son off to parts unknown, murdered my crew, and secured for your children and grandchildren the position of God-Emperor of Pegasus - and yet here I am. What purpose does it serve your great scheme for galactic domination?"

"It's not galactic domination," Iohannes reminds her.

"That, as well, is a matter for some debate."

Iohannes knows he should ask her what she thinks his purpose for keeping her alive is, or why she thinks he's an Abomination today, or maybe he should just start firing bullets into her until she's a mutilated mess of flesh and bone and blood on the cell floor, but he doesn't. He can't, in the same way he still can't bring himself to dial Terra.

He leaves the room instead to go stare at bloodstains on the walls two-and-a-half piers away.

* * *

10 December, 2006 / 37 Days After The Second Exodus

In the end, it's his own carelessness that kills Danelia. He is Ascended and, as such, doesn't need to eat - unlike his cousin, who is very much mortal and too prideful to admit he's forgotten to feed her for pretty much the entire time she's been locked up.

It's probably for the best. He's attached too much meaning in his head, he thinks, to the act of killing her. He'd wanted it to have some sort of meaning, some sort of purpose beyond the tying up of loose ends that it's probably best that the only one it'll ever have is that Iohannes is a disgraceful excuse for a sentient being.

* * *

The only reason he notices when she dies at all is because she is, to the bitter end, her father's daughter, and melodrama is much a family trait as tourmaline eyes. Because there turns out to be a dead-man's program written on an off-network computer hidden amongst Danelia's belongings that is set to transmit the moment her biosigns disappear from the city's sensors. At least one iteration of the message is able to get off before Atlantis is able to block it, and while neither of them are quite sure 'what' it is, they both know two things:

One, that the transmission is some sort of computer program. And, two, that its intended destination is the planet Assuras.

In a way, Iohannes is almost glad for it. It allows him to hate his late, unlamented cousin properly instead of fixate on all the ways she was probably right.


	25. Exsul, Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first set of 0s and 1s is binary for the latin of "Aurora's song". there may be formatting issues due to internet

Exsul  
An Ancient!John Story

Pars Septem

10 December, 2006 / 37 Days After The Second Exodus - Stargate Command, Terra, Avalon

It takes eighty-three minutes for Atlantis to dial back, during which time the situation at the SGC spirals into madness, starting with General Landry herding the three of them them into the Briefing Room, handing Sam a schematic of the Lost City, and asking what the best way is to get a nuke past its shields.

Daniel blinks loudly and with extreme prejudice in the silence that follows the pronouncement. "You're going to use nuclear weapons on Atlantis?"

"It's the gateway to Earth," Landry reminds them unnecessarily.

"And we have an iris! You can't just 'nuke' sixty-five million years of history because Colonel Sheppard stole your toys."

"Yes, we do, but thanks to Colonel Carter's Intergalactic Gate Bridge, all they have to do is rewrite the macros and they can come out anywhere in the Milky Way - especially how that they have the man who wrote the God damn things."

"I think," Daniel continues polemically, "you're underestimating the sheer, overwhelming 'apathy' Sheppard has for this galaxy."

Cam snorts. "He cared about it enough to kidnap twenty-three of our guys from out under our noses."

"I don't think that was about Earth. I think it was about Sheppard getting back the people he considers his."

"They aren't his."

"They are to him."

"That doesn't make what he did 'right'."

"You would've done the same thing if it'd been me or Sam."

Scoffing now, "That's different," Cam insists.

"How?" Daniel presses. "How exactly is it different? We're talking about a guy who considers the 'entire population of Earth' to be family. He's the last member of the race that built the Stargates, remember? They do everything big - including, it would seem, defining things. He calls Jack his 'nephew', for goodness sake."

"Are we going to talk about that?" Sam interrupts, because if she knows the men in her life - which, (she sometimes feels) unfortunately, she does, - they'll argue this one point for hours and never actually bring up the most important part of everything the boy, Jinto, had said.

"We 'are' talking about it."

"No," she says patiently. "He said that 'the Lord killed all the False Gods'." Sam doesn't know what part of that sentence is more troubling, but she does know that, "If John was willing to commit genocide on his own race, what do you think will happen if we try to attack Atlantis and fail?"

Cam, with all the puffed up pride of a man trying to make people forget he hadn't been involved, says, "We've gone up against aliens claiming to be gods before."

"But he knows he's not a god. In his mind, he's just a simple solider," Daniel points out. If anyone would know, it's Daniel, because, in his attempts to divine the history and the culture of the Ancients, he's been inadvertently privy to more pieces of John's life than anyone now alive - save for Rodney, who is silent about the matter in a way that only betrays how much their relationship actually matters to him. "But that's not true - the simple part at least. He was in charge of Atlantis' defences for years and planned the Battle of Tirianus almost single-handedly.

"Didn't the Ancients 'lose' that battle?"

"That's not the point. The point is that he's managed to unite an entire galaxy under his banner in very short order. That speaks of both astonishing political ability and extraordinary military skill. Both of which he's willing to use, if Jinto's report of the Massacre of the Ancients is correct, but neither of which has been turned on us - so far."

"So, what? You're not seriously suggesting that we let him get away with it, are you?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying at all. What I 'am' saying is that it is a potentially bad idea to start a war we have no guarantee of winning with the guy who is the most powerful being - temporally, spiritually, and practically - in the universe when we don't have to."

"Believe me, Doctor," Landry says, "I want peace as much as you do. But tell me, Doctor Jackson, what defence do we have against a force that can sneak past all our defences undetected, armed with weapons the likes of which we've only dared to dream of - and headed by a man who is, for all practical purposes, a god? A preemptive first-strike is our 'only' chance of success against those odds."

"That's just it! General, he 'could' have attacked us already. He 'could' have launched a hundred thousand drones and taken out every significant military asset we have, decapitated the world's governments, 'and' destroyed the planet's infrastructure before we could even get anybody into the Control Chair down in Antarctica. 'If' he wanted to. But he didn't. He obviously wants peace just as much as we do."

"Guys who want peace don't go around slaughtering their own people," Cam points out.

"But we don't know the full story there."

"We know enough to know that he apparently killed over a hundred people without batting so much as an eye, and that he's at least partially repopulated the city with a force that is utterly loyal to him."

"I'd hardly call a single teenage boy a force."

"Where there's one..."

"Well," Sam interrupts again, beginning to feel incidental to the conversation, "it's a pointless argument anyway. There's no way to get a nuke past their shields."

"Come on, Sam. It can't be any harder than blowing up a sun."

"Let me rephrase: there's no way 'we' can get a nuke past their shields. They've got an iris made up of pure energy and shield powered by two ZPMs. The Wraith couldn't get past either in a hundred years of war. There's nothing that we've got that makes me think we do any better."

"That's not the sort of thing a commander likes to hear, Colonel."

"It's the truth, Sir. Though..."

"You think of something, Sam?"

"No. It's just... Colonel Sheppard is an Ascended being, which makes him pure energy already - a sentient nuclear bomb. Even if we somehow managed to drop a bomb on him, what guarantee do we have that it would actually kill him? How can we be sure we wouldn't just be making him stronger?"

10 December, 2006 / 37 Days After The Second Exodus - Battleship 'Aurora', On Approach To Lantea, Pegasus

"It is elegant device," Radek says, examining the modified goa'uld memory recall device in his hands. "I cannot believe you put this into your brain."

"Not you too. I've got enough of how it was 'reckless' and 'irresponsible' and 'criminally stupid' from your better half - and second-hand from 'his' better half. It is your job as a scientist to ooh and awe this new technology and not consider the practical consequences."

"Is it? I must have missed that memo."

"Shut up. You know you missed me," Rodney reminds him, moving to snatch the device back but not getting far because of the hand on his shoulder.

"'Ano' - although I do not remember why now."

Rodney tries to snatch back the device again.

Carson's hand tightens around his shoulder - also again. "Rodney!" he complains. "Hold still. I am trying to insert a shunt-"

"Docking port," Rodney corrects. He'd decided the first time he removed the device that the whole affair would be a lot less messy if there were a port he could put the device into rather than an half-healed flesh wound. There'd been steeping last time and though he'd not been sure, the unpleasant thought that it might be spinal fluid was enough for him to search for a better alternative than simply pushing the pin through the mastoid skin behind his ear each time. A couple hours' tooling in 'Aurora's' machine shop following what Rory is, apparently, fancifully calling 'The Hegira' had given him the solution: a docking port inserted behind his right ear into which the device could be inserted, but which would remain in place to prevent his brains from leaking through.

Naturally, it had taken four times as long to convince Carson to actually implant it, nevermind the surgery was outpatient at best.

"-delicate contraption into your brain. It is, quite literally, 'brain surgery' and I cannae do it properly if you donae hold still."

"Please, you've been finished for a good half hour. Now you're just being a Nervous Nellie."

"Whereas you're normally a regular Pollyanna with your health," Carson snorts. "Did you eat anything other than coffee at all these last six weeks?"

"Yes, because constant 'brain-splitting headaches' give you such an appetite. I honestly don't know how I'm going to fit into my prom dress anymore." Rodney rolls his eyes violently - and finds himself actually glad for Carson's hand on his shoulder, as it keeps the world from spinning too badly; maybe everybody really does have a point about DIY brain surgery. "No, of course not. What kind of stupid question is that?"

Carson tisks.

Which, naturally, causes Zelenka to offer, "Evan said he was unconscious when he found him," because the man is a troll. An unabashed troll. Because God forbid he be surrounded by actual, competent colleagues instead of the B-rate comedy club he's got.

"Rodney!"

"What? I had that thing," he points furiously in the direction of the device Radek has by this point placed in a bowl of antiseptic, "dialed up too high. It was a trial run. I didn't know any better. I do now. Problem solved. Stop fretting over me and let me go do something 'useful', like make sure Rory's engines aren't about to explode after going over six million lightyears in six days." It's a justifiable worry too. He sincerely doubts she ever clocked half that many miles in her entire life previous and knows with absolute certainty that no one's done proper maintenance on her since the event Lorne's calling The Second Exodus.

He's fairly certain that's not going to bode well for the IOA. Or the SGC.

"He also said," Radek continues traitorously, "that he had a small pharmacy in his office."

"Seriously? Lorne's been plugged into Rory's navigation system for like all but fifteen minutes for while you've been here and you used that time to gossip about 'me'? Your priories, Radek, are seriously screwed."

"Alas, yes," he sighs. "But someone must be responsible for The Care and Keeping of Rodney McKay while you and the Colonel are apart and, unfortunately, that task falls to me."

Rodney has a distinctly unpleasant sense of where this is going. "If you so much as 'think' an in-law joke, I will put you on water treatment repair for the rest of eternity."

"But Rodney," he says innocently, "is not joke if you 'are'-"

Rodney pulls out of Carson's hold and lets himself fall back against his biobed. "I hate you. I hate you all."

"Now Rodney," Carson says placatingly, patting him on the shoulder, "that's not true."

"Ignore him. We do not need his head swelling any larger, or else you will have to install a shunt in his brain for real."

"That's it: your name, top of the water treatment on-call list, forever."

"What's next? You will send me to my room without dinner?"

"I hate all of you," Rodney repeats, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just give me my device back so I can make sure we won't die a fiery death before we get to Atlantis." Or die in flames once they get there, if Lorne's assessment of the situation when he left is at all accurate.

"What are you going to do? Call it 'the device' for rest of your life?"

No. Because he plans on letting John name it, because John takes ridiculous amounts of pleasure in naming things. He's not going to subject himself to the pout and inevitable renaming if he doesn't have to, so he'll just let John do it in the first place - though they'll still end up arguing about his choice. Rodney thinks it'll probably take them 'months' to name the child if he and John ever manage to adopt someone who's not already fully grown-

Not prepared to follow that line of thinking any further, he plucks the device out of Radek's hand and slides it into the newly installed docking port behind his right ear without further ado and loses himself instead in the 01000011011000010110111001110100 01101001010000110101010101001101 01000001010101010101001001001111 010100100100000101000101, which is (SELECT ) so very different (FROM interfaces i) from before, where his firewalled laptop was the only data he had access to (WHERE = artificial intelligence). There's still no interface (AND EXISTS SELECT NULL), but there's so much 'more' now for him to take in and he has a sense of the code shifting and changing under his gaze that had been lacking before. Like the ship is trying to talk to him.

01010011010000010100110001010110 01000101010011010100111101010010 01000101010001000101010101000011 0101010101010011 (trans. Eng. "Hel-lo Mor-e-duc-us.") she says, and the rest is a blur he follows as best he can until deceleration maneuvers begin.

10 December, 2006 / 37 Days After The Second Exodus - Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

The universe is falling apart around him.

He can feel it expanding, a soft suggestion of terror in an otherwise ordinary room which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end if he dwells on it for too long. Every second is putting another forty-four point one one seven miles per megaparsec between him and the home galaxy. No Alteran has ever been as far away from the origin of his species as Iohannes is now. None will ever break his record, because he is The Last. There are no more hidden away in stasis on forgotten 'lintres' or tucked away in dusty cities. He is the only one left. The utter end.

Pegasus itself is expanding too, even as he works to bring it closer than ever before. There are two hundred seventy-nine billion stars in the galaxy - seventy billion planets - eleven thousand, six hundred eighty-seven inhabited worlds - all of them flying apart from each other at speeds which make even the best hyperspace generator appear snail-like. Right now the Wraith threat unites them, but Iohannes has no idea what will keep his Confederation together when their enemies are finally defeated. Their common religion might be able to manage it, but he plans to be well and truly mortal again by that point and he sincerely doubts a religion can survive seeing its deity made flesh and blood.

Pegasus expands, even as it rushes towards its brethren in what the Terrans call the Local Group. In just under four billion years it will merge with the Andromeda Galaxy, which itself will collide with Avalon not long after. It promises to be spectacular, but Iohannes doesn't plan on being around to see it. Maybe then the Terrans will take an interest in Pegasus affairs, beyond what Atlantis can do for them. Atlantis is many things, but she's not some rubbish bin for other species to rummage through for forgotten treasures. There are enough abandoned Alteran colonies in Avalon for them to desecrate; let Atlantis be what she always should have been: the crowning jewel of the Alteran empire. A shinning star upon the ocean. A sanctuary and a school and a home.

Lantea is spinning about its star, about its axis. In twenty-three minutes, the sun will creep below the horizon. Danelia will have been dead for six-and-a-half hours then. The message her dead-man's program sent should have arrived at Asuras by that point. He has no idea what was in the message - Iohannes' understanding of programing languages is just about limited to making his mission reports for the SGC look presentable, - but he doubts it was something so kind as an auto-destruct sequence. No, in all likelihood the Asurans are preparing to annihilate the Descendants, just like Danelia always wanted, and he can't use the only weapon he has to stop them because he can't risk 'Lantis on those odds.

It's all threatening to fall apart.

It's all starting to come together.

Teyla's back and she brought a contingent of Athosians with her. They're working on renovating the rooms around the primary atrium in Tower Eleven, on the premise they can be transformed into shops for off-world merchants - a real marketplace, protected from the Wraith. He likes the idea even if the thought of so many unknowns in his city makes him more nervous than he would care to admit. Playing hostess has rarely worked out well for Atlantis in recent times.

Ronon's on Genia for the moment, forming the rubrics of the Argosy. Last Iohannes heard, things were going well, if slowly, as few planets in Pegasus have a tradition of an organized military. But the men and women of this galaxy are competent fighters already; what they lack is discipline and cohesion - and sophisticated weaponry. He has confidence in Ronon and his recruits. Even if their training seems to be going impossibly slowly.

And Rodney's coming home. Lorne and Rory will bring him back, along with the other Expedition members who are true Lanteans at heart, who'd begged him before the Second Exodus to find a way for them to say. People who'd known from the beginning that they just couldn't abandon Atlantis, that they were at least partly responsible for what was happening to the galaxy and that it was their duty to stay and fight. People who saw Atlantis for everything she truly is and loved her for it. They're all coming home.

Eventually.

It's hard to focus, knowing that any day now Rory could establish orbit around the planet and bring his 'amator' home. It's a nagging uncertainty, a worried tooth, and, if Iohannes allows himself to dwell on it, it could easily subsume all other cares. Logically, he knows that it was his idea to send Rodney away. Logically, he understands that he will return just as soon as he's physically able and not a second later. But...

But it's been difficult since his Ascension to find anything that will hold his attention for long. Books and movies and other Terran entertainments can manage it for a while, but novelty is key and his collection is terribly finite. Any idea that can capture his attention is immediately latched onto, for good or ill, and while he 'knows' that Rodney is coming home, there's still the worry he can't let go of: that Rodney 'won't' come home, that things will have changed between them already, that things will never be the same again. It's only been thirty-seven days, but even that can be a lifetime...

Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. The universe is always changing, growing, spinning, expanding. The planets are turning, the stars are burning, and one day, far in the future, it will all be too much and it all will die a cold, quiet death. But until that day, change is inevitable, even for that which once seemed invincible.

But then 'Aurora' arrives. And when she lands and the gangplank is lowered, Rodney is the first one out, and there's no mistaking the joyous expression on his face, or the way his smile widens still further when Iohannes says, "Welcome home, buddy."


	26. Percantator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Percantator" is "questioner", my internet is annoying, and I've seriously conflicted feelings about how this one turned out. Love as always to popkin16 for putting up with me during this

"You know, this is not how I pictured our reunion going."

"It's not?" John asks wryly, swinging his legs a little as they dangle over the edge of a dusty workbench. "'Cause it seems kinda appropriate to me. Why?" He leans bodily across the table to snatch up the Rubik's Cube that had been doubling as a paperweight in the corner farthest from him. "What d'you imagine?"

Rodney levels his 'amator' the most exasperated look in his arsenal over the top of his laptop. "Don't be stupid."

"Oh, no, I'm assuming it was sex, I just want details. I for one had planned on pushing you up against the nearest convenient flat surface and getting us both off as fast as possible," he says utterly casually, the better part of his attention on solving the Rubik's Cube. "To take the edge off, y'know, before we stumbled into bed for real and had the kind of slow sex your movies insist on calling 'making love'."

Rodney chokes on his own breath. John has to know by now that he can't just 'say' things like that - but he wouldn't be John if he didn't.

"But this is nice too," he continues. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not sex, but I missed this."

"You missed," he manages, tone littered with disbelief, "loitering in my lab while I try to save the galaxy from the latest crisis inspired by your species' tragically genetic stupidity?"

"Yeah," John says in a way that implies that his question is too ridiculous for words and he is only answering because of the equally ridiculous amount of fondness he has for him. "I like hanging out with you."

Dryly, "You like watching me stare at a computer screen for hours."

"That's what I said."

Rodney shakes his head. "We've got to find you a hobby."

"This is my hobby."

Of course it is, Rodney thinks, manfully resisting the urge to roll his eyes by keeping them firmly planted on the lines and lines of Ancient code scrolling across his computer screen. "A better one."

"I like it."

"Of course you do," he says - or, at least, that's what he means to say. The words that tumble out of his mouth end up being, "What on Earth did you do when I wasn't here?" instead.

There's a beat. Then, "Yeah, let's not go there."

"Oh, no. You don't get to pull that card," Rodney insists, pressing the lid of his laptop closed. "Not with me. Not this time.

"I'm okay with you not talking about everything that happened before you went into stasis," he continues. "I really am. I'm okay with not knowing anything but the broadest strokes about your father and all the emotional abuse he put you through, or what happened between the two of you that made your megalomaniac of a cousin hate you so much, or a single thing about your ex-girlfriend beyond the fact that she 'existed' and apparently wanted to 'have a baby' with you. I can live with all of that. My species was still figuring out the finer mechanics of farming at the time, so its not like I have a leg to stand on insisting that you tell me every little thing about your life back then, and it's not like you've ever asked about 'my' past partners or anything, so, yeah.

"But 'this'," he gestures between them, "this is something we have to talk about."

"No, it's really not."

"Well too bad. I love you, John, but you can't just make these big, sweeping decisions about our lives and our future together without consulting me."

"I'd hardly call not wanting to talk about what happened while you were gone a 'sweeping decision'," he says dryly, still not getting it.

"It is," Rodney persists. "It is when you 'never' talk to me. About 'anything'."

John raises an eyebrow, more amused than aggrieved. "What d'you call what we're doing now?"

"Stop being an idiot! I know it's a habit and I know you think you have good reasons for it, but I actually want to have a serious conversation with you, so stow it and 'talk' to me for once."

"Fine," John crosses his arms. "What do you want to talk about?"

"How about whatever it is you don't want to talk about?"

"How about we go back to talking about sex?" he offers instead.

"Sex isn't the answer to everything."

"Then you've obviously not been trying hard enough."

"Obviously not," he bites out, "because maybe then you wouldn't have packed me off back to Earth like I was some kind of fu- some kind of tinfoiled damsel in distress."

There's a sharp intake of breath. "You know-" John begins, and there's odd tone to his voice, too hesitant for the conversation Rodney wants to have. He's angry at John- No, he's downright furious at John for doing this to him, to them, and he wants this to turn into a screaming blowout that ends with thousands of dollars of broken lab equipment and maybe deven a bloodied lip or two. It's not that he wants a fight, but they need to have it out so they can get back to what they had before this mess. It's desire for equilibrium and nothing more, and John's not helping anything because he's just being too damn 'nice' and-

"I hate you," he finds himself raging instead. It's only when his chair clatters to the floor behind him he realises he's standing, but it's a distant understanding, mostly lost to the white haze of his anger. "Do you have any idea what it was like for me back on Earth without you? Without Atlantis' song in my head? I was going out of my mind, popping pills right and left so that I could at least think straight, rather then feel like my brains were attempting to crawl out of my skull with a plastic spoon. It got so bad that I invented something to shove into my head on the off chance it would keep me from being locked in a psych ward!

"And it's all your fault! You 'know' what it's like to have everything you've ever cared about ripped from you, and you did it to me anyway. Only worse, because I had to 'live' with the fact that you and 'Lantis and Rory and this whole little crazy family we made for ourselves was still out there, but you just didn't want me anymore."

"I-" John begins-

-but Rodney doesn't let him finish. "You know what the worst part is?" he asks instead and refuses to give John the chance to answer. "The fact that I keep 'letting' you do this to me. I'm the smartest person in two galaxies. Once the Stargate program is declassified, I'm going to have so many Nobels that we'll have to give up a wall of your library to house them all. I should be smarter than this, but I'm obviously not because you do this every time and I 'know' its going to happen and I'm 'still' surprised by it. Every. Single. Time."

John sets the Rubik's Cube down and slides off the bench. The movement puts him far closer than Rodney expected, and, huh, he must have moved at some point himself, which means he's basically been shouting in John's face for God alone knows how long. And John - who'd massacred over a hundred of his own people while Rodney was away; who's spent his whole life fighting a war that's torn him out of time and taken from him everything he once held dear, yet has not only managed to survive, but thrive; who has all the power of a thunder storm, an earthquake, an atomic bomb at his disposal - is just  
'letting him do it'.

"Stop it," he snaps.

"Stop what?" John asks, and, yes, there's genuine irritation in his voice now. "You're the one yelling."

"Yes!" he exclaims, snapping his the fingers of both his hands. "That! Exactly! Why am I the only one yelling?"

"'Cause I've no idea what I'm supposed to be yelling about! The only thing I'm getting out of this conversation is that you, apparently, hate me now. What d'you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg for you to stay? I love you, Rodney. I love you so much that I'd rather have you alive and safe and hating me than dead and loving me. 'Cause I don't regret any of it - any of the things I've done to keep you and everyone else in this city safe. I'm not going to say I did just to keep you from leaving me."

"I'm not-!" Rodney shouts. Then, catching himself, he continues at a moderately more reasonable - but still far too loud - volume, "I'm not trying to leave you."

"Then what," John yells back, confusion and resignation having given way to genuine irritation, "are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to get you to 'talk' to me."

"About what I did while you were one Terra."

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because I love you, you idiot! I can barely watch a movie anymore without wondering what you'd think about it, so of course I want to know things were as awful for you this last month as they were for me. I want to know everything about your life before - not in some sort of creepy anthropological way, but because I want to know about 'you' and all the things you think I wouldn't understand or would take the wrong way or just won't want to hear. I want the whole ugly history of everything that went down with you and Helia, and all the things your father said to you to make you think saving the universe is your job and yours alone. I want to know why you're terrified to ask anything more from our relationship than what we already have and all the things you keep locked away in that floppy-haired head of yours. I'm talking hopes and dreams here, and the stupid little things you want to wake me up to tell me but don't because you think I need my sleep more. I want all of it, but I'll take whatever you're comfortable talking about so long as you're actually saying something that 'matters'."

"Sex matters."

"John!"

Exasperated, "Look, I get what you're asking," John says, hands coming to rest lightly on Rodney's hips, "but you know everything that matters already. Telling you about all that stuff doesn't change anything. It's not important. You're important. Sex is important. What's happening now matters But the past..." He tugs Rodney closer and presses their foreheads together. "It's just the past. It can't hurt us if we don't let it. So let's leave it dead and cremated and move on with our lives best as we can."

"I still want to know."

"Why?" he asks, and it's hard to remember that John isn't flesh and blood, that he isn't as fragile as he sounds, that he's never been anything less than the most dangerous person Rodney's ever met, if only because he holds in his hands the power to break his heart.

"'Because it's you," Rodney tells him, and that's all he intends to say, it really is, because he's pretty sure John's got the idea now, and that maybe they'll be able to really talk to each other now and keep things like the last month from happening again. Because it's best to take little steps with John, because he's uncomfortable with anything wide or grand or sweeping, and even the smallest discussion of feeling can have him running for the hills. Because he really has missed John all these weeks and want to take advantage of the fact they're alone together to actually have the sex his 'amator' has planned out so well, dead-man's programs and the rest of the universe be damned.

Instead he continues and the words, "Marry me," come tumbling out of his mouth to ruin the equilibrium they've managed to achieve.


	27. Sponsi

10 December, 2006 / XIII Mar. a.f.c. I - Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

He's prepared for any number of reactions, most of them negative, but the last thing Rodney expects is for John to close the gap between them, hands reaching out to frame his face before capturing his mouth in a kiss that can only be called claiming.

"'Etiam'," he murmurs raggedly against Rodney's lips when he pulls back far too soon. "'Sane'," he adds before kissing him again, gentler this time but still far from chaste, not with the way his tongue keeps darting into his mouth, less teasing and more a promise of what's to come.

"That's a yes, right?" Rodney manages when they break apart again. They don't go too far - his hands are still fisted in the ridiculous embroidered front of John's robe; John's have migrated south, to clutch at Rodney's hips with clear desperation - but even the the scant inch forced upon them by Rodney's need to breathe seems too much right now. It's been too long since they were like this. Far too long. "Please say that this is a yes. 'Cause I know that that was maybe the worst proposal ever, but this definitely seems like it might be a yes."

The gust of air tickles his cheek as John snorts, "Yeah. It's a yes."

"Forgive me if my knowledge of Ancient goes out the window when you kiss me like that."

He feels the corners of John's mouth turn up this time. "I guess you just need more practice then." Before Rodney's oxygen-deprived mind can unravel that sentence, John presses the softest, lightest of kisses to his lips. "'Te amo'," he whispers.

"John-"

"'Te desideravi'," he mutters, pressing his lips to Rodney's forehead now. "'Te tam valde desideravi'."

Rodney swallows, because there's no denying the emotion in his 'amator's' voice. It's almost impossible to remember at moments like this that the chapped lips on his forehead, the brush of stubble against his eyelids aren't real. That beneath his patina of false skin is more energy than a human mind can adequately comprehend, and it's trembling from the memory of being without 'him'. It's equal parts heady and terrifying, and his own broken breath does nothing to steady him.

"John," he says again and Rodney can only hope that he fills it with half as much meaning, because John is everything to him. Everything.

Touching their foreheads together now, "'Non me rursus destituere sinis'," he breathes, so quiet it's almost lost in the scant space between them. Or maybe John doesn't say anything at all and it's just the feeling, passing back and forth between them on shared heartbeats and coating itself in the veneer of words so that his imperfect human mind can make sense of it all.

'I love you'.

'I missed you so much'.

'Don't ever leave me again'.

"I know," Rodney tells him, because that's all he can do. "I won't. I- I can't give you forever, but I'll give you as long as I have."

John just holds him closer. It's not the homecoming either of them had imagined, but standing there, with bruised lips and fully clothed, it's somehow better. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, Rodney has a feeling that everything is going to work out.

* * *

11 December, 2006 / XIV Mar. a.f.c. I

The feeling is a lie, of course, as Rodney realises the next morning when he wakes up alone in his lab with his cheek pressed to the keyboard of his laptop and thousands of lines of alien code glaring harshly in his eyes.

"Well fuck," he says, letting his head fall back down with a protest of little plastic keys and some annoyed beeping from a much-abused spacebar.

The air recycling units make a chittering, amused noise overhead. "I have no earthly idea why I missed you," he tells the city, squeezing his eyes as tight as he possibly can against the tropical sunrise of a rare cloudless day in the middle of the rainy season. Blinds. He needs to invest in blinds for his lab next chance he gets. Or, in case such things don't exist in Pegasus, steal the stupid sparkly curtains from John's old quarters. If they're back to scavenging for what they need now that Earth's no longer in the picture, Rodney gets first dibs.

Briefly, he wonders where John's made off to, but quickly stamps down on that thought. That way dragons be and he's still got work to do, mainly to the tune of figuring out the finer points of Helia's dead-man's program. He's not made much progress, what with all of last night's distractions, but Rodney's got the feeling that even if he'd devoted every second of the last ten or so hours to decipher the code, he'd still not have been able to make his way through even a tenth of it. It's messy and ugly and probably a good eighty percent of it is trash, but some of that trash might be important and figuring out what fresh hell Helia decided to call down on them with her last breath. It'll probably take weeks to sort out properly.

If they have weeks. Anything aimed at Asuras is bound to be apocalyptic in nature, and Replicators don't exactly need rest or sleep or twenty years to augment their numbers.

(One day, he swears, he's not going to have to save the world every other week, and he'll have no idea what to do with himself.)

He feels around the flat surface of the workspace for the flash drive that contains the program that runs his still-nameless device. He doesn't need it to keep his sanity - he can hear Atlantis' song just fine, even if she still seems overly amused by his half-wakeful stake - but it will certainly cut down the time it takes to figure out just what Helia sent to Asuras, and there's never enough time.

Because Rodney will grow old and die long before John's sentence of Ascension comes close to ending. It doesn't change anything - a single lifetime is all they'd ever have even if John had never Ascended, - but it makes a mockery of his proposal. Sure, he gets John for the next forty, fifty years, but what about the next thirty thousand? How many more like him will step up, however fleetingly, to be the Emperor of Pegasus' consort? The worst part - the absolute worst part - is that John could honestly and genuinely mourn him for a century, for a millennia even and still have time to fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, mourn someone else several dozen times over before his parole is due.

If Rodney were a better person, it might make him happy to know that John probably won't be alone after he's gone. But he's not. He's petty and jealous and unforgiving and takes things far too seriously and hasn't had the emotional distance he needs to be a proper scientist since the moment he first stepped through the Stargate and met John.

He can never be John's first. That spot is taken by the mysterious Nicolaa de Luera Pastor, whom Rodney only knows enough of to know that she can't have ever appreciated what she had if she threw it all away like she did.

He won't be John's last either. That belongs to someone who isn't yet born, whose thousandth great-grandparents won't be born for millennia, in a galaxy Rodney can't imagine the shape of.

He should be grateful for his three, four decades. At the rate John was going before his Ascension, he'd have been lucky if he'd gotten three or four more 'years' before John did something so recklessly suicidal that there was no coming back. But Rodney can't be. That's not who he is. He wants more. He wants everything. And while John is everything to him, there is no way in the universe Rodney can be everything to him.

Rodney sighs and lifts his head up - and sighs again when he sees the alarming orange of his flash drive resting just out of reach atop a pile of greenhouse maintenance logs. He's just about to plug it into his laptop when the door slides open.

John's obviously trying to be quiet, tiptoeing around the sensitive lab equipment with one eye on his feet and the other on the coffee cups he's holding. It's kind of stupidly endearing and makes Rodney's heart feel lighter than it has in years, including last night, especially when John still manages to run into the corner of one of the workbenches, sending a stack of 'The Astronomical Journal' and 'Advances in Physics' sliding to the floor. His head snaps up, obviously trying to see if he's woken Rodney-

-only to see that Rodney's already awake and grinning at him fondly.

John glares at him. "You coulda said something, y'know." His eyes flick briefly to the ceiling. "Either one of you. I'm not picky."

Rodney rather thinks John could have left a note, but that might be asking too much of the universe. "Tell me there's coffee in one of those," he says instead.

"There is," John tells him. "I don't know how good it is though. You guys took all the coffee machines with you when you left, so I borrowed Lorne's setup. There's like a ninety-nine percent chance that it's not palatable and a fifty percent chance that it's not coffee at all, but..." He shrugs, handing Rodney one of the cups, "It's the thought that counts."

It is one of the universe's great jokes that chicory is native to Pegasus and the coffee plant is not. If ever a galaxy needed coffee, it is Pegasus.

The coffee is... Well, it's coffee at least, and once he's got enough caffeine in him, he's able to set most of his earlier fears aside in favour of asking the more pressing question: "So, what's the plan?"

"For today?" John asks picking up the journals he knocked over. "Mainly about figuring out where we stand. We've got enough people to make a good start of it, but it's not like you guys came prepared like last time-"

"That tends to happen when you're only given an hour's notice before you're abducted by aliens."

"I prefer the term 'liberated'. And either way, we need to take inventory. Figure out what we need. I've already asked Teyla to get her hands on some extra clothes for everyone - I'm pretty sure most everyone only came with what's on their backs and stuffed their bags full of surgical equipment and seed packets instead. I'm kinda curious to see how that works out."

"They wanted to come, John. We all did."

"I know. I'm just saying, I don't wanna be around when the coffee actually does run out."

Rodney shudders. "If we send Lorne back to Earth now, he might get there before Sam figures out exactly what I did to Oracle and fixes it so 'Aurora' can't slip into obit unnoticed anymore."

"I've already got Lorne and Zelenka getting Rory ready to do some recon of Asuras, but we'll see how bad the coffee situation really is before I send them off."

"Really?"

"No," John says dryly, putting the last of the journals back. "But the IOA is sending over a delegation the day after tomorrow. I'm pretty sure we can get them to bring some coffee beans with them as a good will gesture if they haven't already thought of it themselves."

"The IOA?" Rodney asks, genuinely confused. Earth is... Earth isn't in the picture anymore. Yes, he and Radek and the rest of those that Lorne saved might have been born there, but it's not home. The IOA left, gladly returning Atlantis to the Ancients' care when the price grew too high, and never would have tried to return, not so long as they could maintain their hegemony of the Milky Way with what technology they already have. The people who want to be on Atlantis - who want to do genuine research, to do genuine exploration, and, yes, to genuinely 'help' the people of Pegasus, - they're already here, barring a couple military types they couldn't be sure wouldn't have turned them in to their superiors regardless of how much they might wish to return. "What are we doing talking with the IOA?"

"Preventing an intergalactic war, if all goes well. Solving our supply problems - and maybe even our manpower ones - if all goes really, really well."

"You're inviting the Expedition back?" But that doesn't make any sense. Why go to all the trouble to 'liberate' them from Earth if he was just going to let them all come back?

"Not technically? I mean," John shrugs, "if things go well I was thinking of offering to lease them space in the city - like with stalls in the marketplace, only on a bigger scale - but I'm not going to just welcome them back with open arms like nothing ever happened. There's forgive and forget, but then there's letting them walk all over us."

"I'm not sure how well a mixed-based like that is going to go over." It's never exactly gone over well in the Milky Way any time the SGC has tried to do it with the Tok'ra or the Free Jaffa. Which John would know if he actually, oh, 'bothered to read the mission reports' instead of worrying about 'Wormhole X-treme' spoilers.

"They can do what they want," John says, making himself at home on the workbench opposite. "We'll still be the ones in charge. The Confederation can still move forward, our plans to irradiate the Wraith will still go ahead as planned, and if they get in the way or try to stop us we can send them packing back to their precious little planet, no harm done."

Frowning, "Unless it starts an intergalactic war."

"Yes, well, no plan's perfect."

Rodney relaxes into his chair, a tension bleeding from him that he'd not been aware he had. "That's somehow comforting. Why's that comforting?"

"'Cause you're weird?"

"I'm not weird. You're weird."

"And yet you're marrying me, so what's that say about you?"

"Hey," Rodney grins at the reminder, "I 'like' weird."

"Only 'like', huh?"

"Oh, believe me, like doesn't begin to cover it."

"Good to know you go in for 'weird'. It might come in handy someday."

"Why?" he snorts, uncapping the flash drive and leveling John a look that says he clearly doesn't have time for this but is going to humour him anyway. "Is there some freaky alien mating ritual we need to complete before we can be married in the eyes of the others? Because if the word's 'pon farr' come out of your mouth, I'm calling the wedding off, no matter how hot it might be at the time"

Dryly, "Not that I know of."

"Good. Though that's probably going to upset the anthropologists."

"We just have the one now, remember? Doctor Morris was the only member of the 'soft sciences' to sign onto our little 'Haegira'."

"That's something at least."

This, for some reason, earns him a smile. "We've got three-sixty ocean views, a population density of point seven one four eight per square mile, and plenty of floor plans to chose from. We'll solve the manpower issue one way or another, sooner or later." John pushes away from his workbench and into Rodney's personal space just long enough to clap him on the shoulder. "I gotta go. I promised Carson I'd help him scout out a good location for the IHC ten minutes ago. I just wanted to make sure you got some coffee in you before you started in on Danelia's program again. I'll check in on you later."

* * *

13 December, 2006 / XVI Mar. a.f.c. I

He's islanded in a sea of stars, only the stars are zeroes and ones, and even so are little more than red- and blue-shifted streaks as they race towards and away from him in the deepest depths of his mind's eye. It is eternity, without beginning or end, only time and understanding expanding ever-outward, until Rodney knows without a doubt what the program is and what it means to do. And then he's falling through the emptiness, though the infinity he inhabits has no up or down, only the stars flying away from him until they are tiny pinpricks of light so far away they might well be the constellations he once knew so well. Then the sky brightens, an unseen sun bringing with it a bright and brilliant dawn and he wakes.

He doesn't notice that he's no longer in his laboratory. Nor does he immediately recognise he's lying in a hospital bed, or that the pain he feels when he lifts his hand to his ear in search of his earwig is from the cannula lodged in one of the more annoying veins of his forearm. It becomes clearer when his movement to find the earwig dislodges the IV, sending an even worse burst of pain through his arm - and his ears, when it's unintentional removal sets off some sort of alarm.

But he finds the earwig and it's only when he gets it in his ear that Rodney realises he's in the infirmary - or, rather, some garage chic version of one. Batting away Doctor Cole's attempts to access the damage he's done himself. "Radek?" he says, opening a comm line, "You and Lorne better still be in the city."

A snort comes over the comm. "The Colonel has said that we are not allowed to steal coffee for you."

"Forget the coffee," he snaps.

There's silence, both over the comm and in the infirmary with him. Cole looks like she's about to start testing him for brain damage. "Are you feeling entirely alright, Rodney?"

"No, but, unfortunately, that's not the important thing at the moment. What 'is' is that I just finished going through Helia's dead-man's program: She's reactivated their primary objective. The Replicators are going to war."


	28. Medici, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Second Expedition is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one... surprised me. Nothing I tried at first worked for this installment, but I decided to take a step back and, well, Keller just proved to be just a wonderful POV for this that I couldn't help myself. I've had a lot of fun making her into a real girl, (a drabble included), and while it's been difficult to do so with the information provided, I kinda like what I've made of her. Really.

27 December, 2006 – Colorado Springs, Terra, Avalon

The snow is hard on the ground and the heater is working furiously against it, but that seems to mean nothing to the man waiting for her inside the town car. It's a black Lincoln – the stretched kind, made to fit five or six passengers – and it looks like something out of every political drama she's ever seen. The man is equally cliché, wearing a dark, military issue peacoat and dark, expensive leather gloves. His boots are highly polished, as are the eagles on his epaulettes. If pressed, she'd describe him as of Filipino descent and in his late forties, with a face that's seen a hard life and a presence that seems to take up more space than it really should. It's vaguely terrifying, and if she didn't need this job so badly Jennifer thinks she'd climb right back out of the car and find the nearest crowded place to lose herself in rather than see what a man like that might want from someone like her.

 

"Hello, Doctor Keller," the man says.

 

"Er, hello," she says awkwardly. What else is she supposed to say? "Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want from me? Please, I'll do anything you want just don't hurt me. Please." Yes, that is bound to go over real well. There's something shark-like about the stranger. She knows without consciously realizing it that she'll be lost forever at the first sign of blood in the water with this man, and so she must stumble blindly through whatever it is he wants of her to reach the safety at the other end.

 

If there is safety at the other end. She's here in Colorado Springs two days after Christmas for what promises to be a long two weeks of preparatory meetings and debriefings regarding the International Scientific Initiative mission to Antarctica she's signed on to. But people signed on to work for international NGOs aren't picked up from the airport by US Air Force lieutenants with unmarked town cars and ominous men in the back seat. She'd thought something was not entirely right about the whole situation – surely the application process for a billet at a remote research station shouldn't be so rigorous, nor the compensation quite so lavish – but the money is just too good for her to walk away from. Her school loans are coming due, to say absolutely nothing about Dad's medical bills. They need the money.

 

God, did they need the money.

 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. She was supposed to become a doctor and that was supposed to fix all their money worries forever. It wasn't supposed to make everything worse. It wasn't supposed to make it so bad that working for the mob, or human traffickers, or God only knows what else a man like this might be involved in, is the only option she has if they want to keep the house and pay the bills and-

 

Jennifer takes a deep breath.

 

The car begins to move.

 

"I am Colonel David Telford with the Air Force's 512th Aerospace Fighter Group," the man says, eyes a little too sharp as he watches her struggle out of her coat, as if he knows the suit underneath is the best one she has, but even then is almost four years old and starting to show its age. The watch this stranger – this Colonel – is wearing probably costs twice as much. At least, "and I'm here to offer you a job."

 

"Oh," she laughs, nervous, uncomfortable, relieved. "That's- That's really wonderful of you, thank you, but I've already got a job. Actually, I'm on my way-"

 

"You are on your way to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex," the Colonel answers for her, "where you will be told that the International Scientific Initiative you have applied to is, in truth, a front for an organization known as the International Oversight Advisory, which administers the civilian components of the Stargate Program and Atlantis Expedition. You will be informed that your posting will not, in fact, be at McMurdo, but rather a top secret base constructed upon the remains of an alien outpost. There your primary responsibility will be to ensure the health of the other researchers and aid in creating a more effective gene therapy for activating dormant genes left in our DNA by an Ancient forbearer known on this planet as Janus so as to allow a greater percentage of our pilots to operate the highly advanced weaponry his people left behind."

 

"I- Oh," she says faintly, relief gone. Forget Air Force officer or mob boss, the man in the car with her is completely delusional. "Aliens, huh?"

 

"Yes. We call this particular species The Ancients, although they are also known as The Gate Builders and The Ancestors depending on which planet you're asking upon. The continent was once home to one of their massive city-ships. The outpost is one of the only structures that remain."

 

Jennifer's done her psych rotation. She knows the cardinal rule of these sorts of things is not to play into their delusions. But she can't seem to stop herself from asking, "What happened to them?"

 

"There was a plague. The survivors migrated to the Pegasus Galaxy." There is a folder in Telford's hands, deep grey with words like classified and do not copy printed in bold letters across the front. He hands it to her. "Conveniently, this relates to the job opportunity I mentioned earlier."

 

"I-" she swallows. She's jetlagged and had been too nervous to sleep well last night and had been the subject of too many tearful goodbyes this morning. She feels stupid and underdressed and more than a little browbeaten, but she's not going to let that stop her. She can't. "I'm sorry, but I just don't see what this has to do with me. If, as you say, I've been hired to do research in Antartica, then that's what I've been hired to do. I don't know what Ancients and spaceships and The Pegasus galaxy is supposed to do with me. I'm a doctor, not an astronaut."

 

Telford gives her a predatory smile. "Doctors are exactly what the Pegasus galaxy needs. It is, for various reasons, highly undeveloped. We had been conducting goodwill missions amongst the populations of various planets until recently, when one of the Ancients – one who had, until this point, been instrumental to the survival of our Expedition there – staged something of a coup. He's installed himself as the emperor of the galaxy; a majority of the populace worships him as a living god. Our Expedition was eventually forced from its base under his rule, but recently he has come to the realization that he cannot hold power with the forces currently at his disposal and has invited the Expedition to return. We believe he wants to use our goodwill missions to, among other things, expand his influence and solidify his powerbase."

 

"It sounds like you're planning to go back."

 

"We are," he confirms, offering her a predatory smile. "I have already been named as the Military Commander for the Second Expedition."

 

Jennifer fiddles with the folder in her hands – not opening it, just picking at one of the corners. "Why go back at all if this guy is so bad?"

 

"Because Atlantis is a treasure trove of alien technology that humanity needs to guard itself from other, more terrible enemies."

 

"More terrible than some alien dictator?"

 

"Others will debrief you further, but yes."

 

Swallowing again, "And just what does this have to do with me?"

 

"Most of the civilian scientists for the Expedition have already been chosen. Many are carryovers from the previous Expedition or had been slated to join the staff on the next transport. We are, however, decidedly lacking in medical staff, particularly a Chief of Medicine."

 

Jennifer rapidly figures out where this is going. "What? Whoa. Hang on a tick, buster. I'm just- I'm barely out of medical school. I've spent three of the last five years since getting my license out of the country-"

 

"-in the Ivory Coast as part of the Doctors without Borders effort there. You returned to Wisconsin in January of 2005, following your father's diagnosis of colon cancer. For the last two years you have worked at Sacred Heart Hospital in Eau Claire, but recent monetary pressures forced you to search for options farther afield. You were encouraged to apply for your current position by Doctor Simon Wallis of Georgetown University Hospital, your former attending and the ex-fiancé of the former Atlantis Expedition leader, the late Doctor Elizabeth Weir. You are currently two hundred ten thousand dollars in debt and maxed out your credit card purchasing the plane ticket here. I know everything about you and know that you are the best choice for a Chief of Medicine I have."

 

"But-" she stutters. "But why me?"

 

"You are the least politically upsetting of vastly limited choices. Your collogues may be better qualified, but you, Doctor Keller, have the distinction of being unthreatening. To everyone:

 

"The Chinese contribute almost a quarter of the project's budget and want greater representation in this Second Expedition, which the Europeans are firmly against, but while they may have the political clout to block the confirmation of the Chinese candidate, their internal squabbling is enough to keep them from agreeing on either the Russian or the French candidate. While normally a non-American would be a better alternative, the next-best candidate is Canadian, which has all of them fuming, as Canada is one of only three IOA nations to support the defection of several members of the First Expedition and has even offered dual citizenship to any of those émigrés who want to retain their ties to Earth.

 

"So, you see, you are nonthreatening politically. You also have a history of humanitarianism and strong ties to your father – and, thus, Earth. More importantly," Telford smiles again, "you need us, and, if you agree to be our Chief of Medicine, I can personally guarantee that not only will your father be well provided for in your absence, but all your debts will be cleared as well."

 

Jennifer is smart. She finished high school at fifteen and earned her Bachelor's shortly before her nineteenth birthday. She speaks English, French, and three of the Ivorian dialects. She's preformed surgery in the rough and under fire and in some of the best surgical suites in the country.

 

She's also desperate – but not so desperate not to ask, "What's the catch?"

 

"Catch?" Telford repeats, somewhat amused. "There's no catch. All we ask is that you do what you've been trained to do. And if, perhaps, you overhear something that one of the Emperor's men would not feel comfortable sharing in front of military personnel…"

 

"You want me to spy on them."

 

"Nothing so crass. Nothing that you feel might violate your oaths, only what you feel comfortable sharing. This alien may be the least of all possible evils, but he's still evil, Doctor Keller. He's a tyrant. A self-proclaimed god. He massacred over a hundred of his own species to secure his position and abducted nearly two-dozen of his sympathizers from this very planet not two weeks ago just to prove that he could. All we are doing is keeping an eye on him the best way we can."

 

"The best the United States Air Force can do is a twenty-eight-year-old doctor from Chippewa Falls?"

 

Telford doesn't answer her question. Instead he says, "We're approaching the Mountain," in a way that's both casual and menacing all at once. "I'll need your answer before we reach the gate."

 

She wants to ask: "Will my father be safe? What if I refuse? What happens when it stops being 'only what I'm comfortable with'?" but those are questions she can't share. They're blood in the water. They're choices she doesn't have. Instead she says, "Alright. I'll do it," and hopes to God she doesn't come to regret it later, although Jennifer already knows she will.

 

A little while later, as she's digging her driver's license out of her purse, Jennifer thinks she's going to come to regret her whole life one day, and she'll be too weighted down by everything that's happened and everything she must do to change it. She can see it coming, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow, but she's powerless to stop it. All she can do is try to ride it out and, with luck, she'll make it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I see this as being 3 parts, but it was getting longish and I wanted to post because the next bit should be really long and this worked well together. 2) Yes, I'm working SGU characters into this. I've always wanted to and, well, I've never seen SGU past "Earth," for obvious reasons if you've seen that episode, despite trying, but I feel between what I've seen and extensive Stargate Wikia-ing, I've got a grasp on the characters enough to muddle through. 3) In USAF, a group is made up of two to four squadrons, each squadron containing twelve to twenty-four aircraft and between 60 to 400 people. A group is 1/4th of a wing. The 512th is entirely made up, but seems to be a natural continuation of naming based off of what wikipedia tells me. 4) Yes, it's that Doctor Wallis. Because I've wanted to do this since "Somniati". 5) This was fun. Expect more soon. 6) For my sick, ever-suffering cheerleader popkin16. Probably not the ideal gift for a McShep-er, but....


	29. Medici, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one took time, largely because the scene I so desperately wanted to write just didn't want to happen. I finally realized it would never work, so this is a bit shorter than I'd planned, but hopefully you all like it anyway.  
> 1) I don't know when the IMC has it's Fields Medal presentation, but it was in Madrid in 2006, and I've put it in December, just because. (Also, one of the awards winners didn't accept his prize that year, so this totally works). 2) Ardrey's quote is one of my favourites. 3) I imagine this and this is what the fancier Pegasus clothing would look like. On average. 4) Don't kill me. 5) popkin16 knows what she did.

4 January, 2007 / 34 Mar. a.f.c. I – Stargate Command, Terra, Avalon

 

"Doctor? Doctor Keller? Can I speak with you for a second?"

 

Jennifer turns away from the gurney, upon which she's currently going through her rucksack for the third time in as many hours, trying in vain to assure herself that, yes, she's packed everything she's going to need and, yes, if by some tragic oversight she has managed to forget something, it can easily be sent to her via one of the Daedalus' bimonthly supply runs or through one of the irregularly-scheduled dial-ins. Despite this perfectly sensible and reasonable knowledge, however, her mind keeps circling back to what she's heard of the first year of the Expedition from Doctor Kavanagh, about how resources were so scarce that everyday luxuries she took for granted, even in Côte d'Ivoire, became precious commodities, horded for months, or else sold at high price on the not-so-black market. Her medical equipment has been inventoried down to the last roll of gauze by a team of, frankly, terrifying nurses that are somehow hers to command and she trusts their judgment, but her personal effects are different. She doesn't know what she'll miss until she needs it – a book, a picture, a locket she hasn't worn in years. "Er, sure," she says nervously, and follows him out into the hall.

 

"Thanks. Normally I wouldn't ask something like this, but things have been so tense lately between us and Atlantis that I felt it was best to go through channels the military wouldn't think to watch."

 

"Ask what?"

 

Doctor Jackson shuffles nervously for a second, eyes darting to either side as if to reassure himself that the empty corridor they're standing in is, in fact, still empty, before pulling out a small package about the size and shape of a necklace gift box. "Because of everything that's happened lately, John wasn't able to Gate to Earth for the ceremony. Rodney's sister accepted the award on his behalf – her speech was quite touching, actually – and she sent it to Sam, who was able to get it past security because, well, she's the XO. And, anyway," he says quickly, apparently realizing he's veered rather off topic, "it's John's Fields Medal. I'm pretty sure it will mean nothing to him, but it's his, so he should have it, and the powers that be would never allow something like this to leave the planet given the state of things at the moment, so… I need you to take it to Atlantis in your things."

 

"I'm sorry, what?" Jennifer asks, blinking.

 

"John Sheppard, the guy who solved the Riemann Problem that's been all over the news lately, and the Emperor of Pegasus are one in the same."

 

"But the Emperor is an Ancient – an alien."

 

"John's an Ancient. His name is actually Iohannes Ianideus Licinus Pastor. Well, Iohannes Ianideus Icarus Imperator now – apparently the Ancients had this habit of adopting new names and identifiers with changes in status or position, so technically while the John is still correct, the Sheppard really isn't any longer. Not that it was ever correct, that's more sort of a direct translation of his rank or title. A better translation would have been John Janusson, but I think the folks involved with transliterating his name were a little literal with the last name thing."

 

Jennifer has never been much of a magazine reader, but even she been unable to miss the whirlwind of cover stories that have been done about the US Air Force officer who managed to solve the unsolvable problem from his tent in the middle of some incredibly dangerous part of Afghanistan – she can never remember where. Some pundits hold him up as an example of the modern military, full of the educated elite who would give their heart and soul for their nation, trying to turn the Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan into some sort of anti-Vietnam by filling it with noble patriots instead of lower-class draftees. Others had used him as an example of the war's waste, sending so many of their best off to somewhere they could only die, or be gravely injured, or come back with mental scaring that would haunt them for life. Both sides had taken his absence from the ceremony in Madrid that was supposed to honor the award winners as further proof of their beliefs, particularly given his RSVP. Video clips of the acceptance speech a family friend – this sister of Rodney's – had given on his behalf have been circling the news cycle for days.

 

The quotation she'd taken from Robert Ardrey's African Genesis – the part of the speech all the video clips include, - "The miracle of man is not how far he has sunk but how magnificently he has risen. We are known among the stars by our poems, not our corpses," now seems different in the light of the knowledge that the award was being accepted on behalf of an alien. An Ancient. The last Ancient – last because he'd murdered his fellows in cold blood to place a crown upon his head.

 

"Oh," she says faintly.

 

Jackson gives her a smile Jennifer cannot quite describe. It's tired and care-worn but, like the anthropologist himself, is far from resigned. She doesn't know his story (she doesn't think she'll ever know all the stories there are to know in a place like this, where secrets are a way of life and everything of importance is better left unsaid), but she's heard enough to know that he has no reason to still believe that there is good in the universe. He should be bitter and broken, but he's so unwaveringly kind that, even in the week or so she's been at the SGC Jennifer's not been able to help but noticing it. It's a smile that's filled with hope but reluctant acknowledgement of the reality of the situation as well.

"Don't believe everything Telford's said about John," he says, "or Rodney, or any of the others who defected, for that matter. They're not bad people. Their intentions are admirable. They just maybe went about things in the wrong way."

 

"Colonel Telford thinks the Emperor's going to be the next 'big bad'."

 

Jackson's smile tightens then. "I don't know. John's a genuinely good man, but the fact remains that the others have their rules about godhood and non-interference for a reason. I hope Telford's wrong. I think he is. But I don't think pre-Ascension John would have had it in him to kill the last of his people, to say nothing of all demands he made to let the Expedition back."

 

"Demands?"

 

"Oh, nothing like you're probably thinking. Some medical supplies that are impossible to get ahold of in Pegasus, some industrial supplies as well – copper wire, transistors, that sort of thing. Nothing terribly dangerous or interesting except for what he might do with them." He looks at his watch. "You should get going. The staging for the first group is scheduled to start in forty-five minutes, which means Telford's probably starting now, so you should probably be going."

* * *

She can feel the medal burning a hole in her rucksack pocket. It's burning through her three changes of uniform, her twelve pairs of socks, and the stuffed bear her parents had gotten her when she was seven months old and had long outgrown except for the moments when she hadn't. It's terrible and terrifying and Jennifer has this feeling that, by agreeing to currier this for Doctor Jackson, she's put herself at the beck and call of another faction of Stargate Command's fractional internal politics. Maybe not as overtly as she had with Colonel Telford, but the fact remains that the organizations involved disagree about how to handle The Atlantis Situation and she's stuck in the middle of it, not even knowing half of what she needs to.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

Jennifer starts.

 

"Whoa," Major Teldy says wryly. "No need to be so jumpy. We haven't even started dialing the Gate yet."

 

"I- I'm sorry. I'm just nervous, I guess."

 

"Don't be. Gate travel is the safest form of transportation there is. Safer than planes. Probably safer than your own two feet. What you need to worry about isn't the journey, but what's on the other side."

 

"Well that's reassuring."

 

The Major snorts. "I'm not paid to be reassuring. The Pegasus galaxy is filled with dangers. Compared to our own, it's the Wild West. There are Wraith and Replicators and ten-thousand-year-old Ancient who may or may not be the salvation of the universe but is more likely it's ruination.

 

"If you wanted safe, you should have stayed at home and been a small town doctor, gone to work everyday and taken care of babies with diaper rash and old folks with bum knees. You'd die at ripe old age in your bed with a life like that.

 

"But safe's not for folks like us, is it?

 

"Like us?" Jennifer repeats, confused to be included in the statement. All she's ever wanted to do is die exactly like that, at a ripe old age in her bed. She wants a husband and kids and a white picket fence and a dog. She wants to be able to go to Dad's every Thanksgiving and Christmas and Fourth of July. She wants to join PTAs and go to soccer practices and piano recitals. She wants to care for kids through colic and watch them grow up and struggle with acne and get married and have kids of their own and get bad backs and bum knees. She wants that sense of family.

 

But on the other hand, she doesn't. There's a reason she spent three years in Côte d'Ivorie. There's a reason she wasn't content to stay at Sacred Heart or find a better paying job at a different hospital. She doesn't want to help people who already have it all. She wants to help people who need her help, people who would have died slow, painful, forgotten deaths otherwise. That's the kind of medicine she wants to practice.

 

They're two contrary sides of herself, two sides she's never been able to reconcile. Maybe Atlantis will be able to provide the proper balance between old-fashioned small town doctor and third-world humanitarian. Maybe.

 

If the politics don't tear her apart.

 

"We know that nothing worth doing is safe or easy or nine to five. There are people in Pegasus that honestly need help, help we're uniquely qualified to give, and they don't care if we're male or female, Christian or Muslim or Jew, American or African or European, or any of it. All that matters to them is if we do what we say we'll do."

 

"So you've been to Pegasus before then?"

 

Teldy shakes her head. "Nah. But I've read all the mission reports. You get a feel for a place, reading those."

 

"But how can you be so sure?"

 

A noise like a train pulling into station begins, the clanking of metal and pistons (or something) that comes with the inner ring of the Stargate beginning to dial.

 

"'Cause it's the only choice I have," she says, clapping a hand on Jennifer's shoulder. Then, beginning to move to the front of the group, she adds, "See you on the other side," before leaving her completely.

* * *

4 January, 2007 / 34 Mar. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Avalon

 

She steps out into a beautiful, two-story atrium. A balcony surrounds three sides of the upper level, with a glass-walled office on the right of this. A series of terminals sits just to the left of that, with hallways going off to either side both above and below. Lighted glyphs cover the crownings; more litter the baseboards and stretch across the stairs that make up the focal point of the room – as much as anything besides the open Gate behind her can be a focal point.

 

But the true highlight of the room is the stained class windows. They are beyond intricate, awash with bright, warm colors and intricate geometric patterns. They bathe the room in buttery light, so warm and inviting after a Colorado winter. And it's all Jennifer can do to turn and stare.

 

It's only on her third rotation that she notices all the people. Not everyone who's Gated through with her – the Second Expedition is transporting over in three groups, hers containing the senior staff and the better part of the military contingent – but those on the upper level. A good ten or fifteen of them, all dressed in clothing she associates with Jeanne d'Arc and the War of the Roses, but in far more muted colors-

 

-except for one, who's wearing deep shade of blue with extensive embroidery along the collar and down the full, flared sleeves, which catches in the light as he waves his hands wildly as he talks to two others – a man with glasses in a similar costume, whose clothes are a dim, dusky dolphin purple, and another in a more conservative outfit of dove grey with buttons down the front and heavy bracers on his arms. He seems irritated and over-caffeinated and generally unhappy with the Expedition's presence.

 

The man in grey smiles before turning to scan the crowd. His eyes alight on Telford – conspicuous in his starched and pressed dress blues amid the sea of black-on-grey Expedition uniforms that crowd the lower level – and his smile dims somewhat. He says something to the other two that appears poorly received before heading down the stairs.

 

"Colonel Telford," he says casually, easily, as if he's a veteran of a hundred such meetings. "Sheppard wanted me to tell you how sorry is he can't be here in person to meet you, but he's running a bit behind schedule today. I'm-"

 

"I know you who you are."

 

"I don't think you do. I am Evan Lorne, though I'll also answer to Davidus Iohanideus Argathelianus Pastor if you're feeling particularly Ancient-y. I am a legatus in the Reformed Lantean Guard and navarchus of the battleship Aurora. Sheppard has seen fit to name me praetor of Atlantis as well, which means you, Colonel, will be reporting to me for the duration of your stay in this galaxy."

 

Scoffing, "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

 

"And yet, that's what Sheppard's going with," Lorne informs him with a wide smile and hands on his hips – not all that close to the gun strapped to his thigh, which should be incongruent with the rest of his clothing but appears to be of the same metal as the small silver lozenge on his collar and the buttons down his coat.

 

Is this what aliens are like? Medieval warriors with laser guns on their hips?

 

But this man isn't an alien. He's not even one of the Émigrés – the fifteen men and eight women from the First Expedition who wanted to return to Atlantis so badly they forsook they left their homeworld to follow a man half the universe thinks is a god and the other the devil in the making. He's the one who fancies himself the devil's son.

 

"Where is Sheppard?"

 

"He's in a meeting with the Cacique of Corcyra regarding joining the Confederation. But, as I said, it's running a rather late. But you can take it up with Doctor McKay if you like."

 

"McKay!"

 

"Yes? What?" the man in blue snaps, turning away from his – quite heated – conversation, which has continued without faltering the entire time. "Can't you tell I'm busy?"

 

Lorne snorts. "Give it up, Pops. You're not going to win this argument. So why don't you come down here and say hi to the newbies?"

 

"Not true. I will win eventually, when you realize the depth of the sheer insanity you're subscribing to and start to scramble for the surface," he continues a she heads down the stairs, the man in purple following a few steps behind and, by the looks of things, muttering something dark under his breath. "And meeting them depends entirely on the whether or not there's anyone interesting in the bunch."

 

"By your definition of interesting? Not very. They got the guy who used to be in charge of the F-302 fighter group at the Alpha Base to be the new military commander, though."

 

"That's uninspiring. How about the Head of the Expedition? Better yet, who's the new me? None of the manifests the SGC sent ever said."

 

"That would be me," Doctor Kavanagh says.


	30. Ascensiones, Part 1

22 February, 2007 / XXXVI Apr. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"Dipoles, Kavanagh! Dipoles!"

"I am more than aware of the problems generated by magnetic confinement upon hydrogen gas, generating evenly compressed plasma amongst them," the so-called Head of Research and Development says acerbically. His bitterness over having to still report to Rodney, despite his absurd new position, has only grown in the seven weeks since the Second Expedition Gated to the city. While there are several familiar faces among them, many of them friendly, there are those Rodney would much rather have done without. Like Kavanagh. And Telford. And any number of others whose names he can't honestly be bothered to recall. "I happen to have a Ph.D. in the field from MIT and another from Texas A&M in Nuclear Engineering. And if you take a look at my simulation, you'd see-"

Rodney is looking at the simulation - far closer than Kavanagh actually has, by the sound of things. Choosing to act like he hasn't been interrupted, he continues, "They complicate matters severely. Magnetohydrodynamics is exceedingly difficulty to project accurately."

"Yes," the other man bites out, his rat-like eyes narrowing in a way that suggests he wants to make an issue of things but is forcing himself to stay – just barely – within the bounds of propriety for appearance's sake. For the moment, "but I have been studying those effects for well over a decade. You might even say I'm an expert in the field. Which is why you should just take a look at-"

"Yes, yes, I've looked at your damned simulation. You've only programed it out to fifteen significant figures."

"Which are five more than are really needed. And, if you notice, it also happens to work."

"On computer, in a simulation," Rodney snorts, tapping the screen of the laptop that's currently running the algorithms for Kavanagh's long-running pet project: a tokamak capable of producing commercially viable magnetic confinement fusion.

If successful, it could be revolutionary back on Earth – Terra. As global oil reserves are depleted, a new source of substantial amounts of energy is desperately needed. Zero point energy remains unviable for a multitude of reasons, ranging from the fact that the Stargate Program remains classified on Earth – Terra – to rather more stymying one that, after nearly thee years, they still don't know what the Zero Point Modules are actually made of, let alone how to manufacture one of their own. Atlantis now has the capability to recharge dead ZedPMs, but even Rodney's ATLAS Device is dependent upon having at least one charged ZedPM available to recharge a dead one. If something were ever to happen to drain all their ZedPMS at once, they're back to square one.

Not that Naquadah generators are exactly square one for energy production, but they are still fission devices. They still generate radioactive waste, albeit on a far smaller scale than the average nuclear power plant. They are still capable of causing widespread destruction if one were ever to seriously malfunction.

A fusion device could potentially solve the world's energy problems, granting the country that controlled it the power of a sun.

It could also potentially turn into a hydrogen bomb if improperly designed.

(Well, no, that's probably over selling things a little. But this is Kavanagh he's talking about, and Rodney doesn't trust his equations any farther than he can throw them. Any disaster is possible if Kavanagh's at the helm.)

"But," Rodney continues, "you try building this thing in real life and you'll blow the city apart."

Through gritted teeth now, "Every simulation has shown-"

"Your simulation's fallacious. And, even if it weren't, if you honestly thought that I'd give you the okay to go ahead and build it without John or myself running the numbers first, you're a bigger idiot than I thought. I don't have time to look over it now, but if you want to go ahead and forward me the data, I can take a look at it tonight-

"What? So that you can use it to make your own design? I think not."

"Please. The moment this program is declassified, I'll have a shelf full of Nobels. The only question is what discovery they'll award it for first."

"I highly doubt the Royal Science Academy would consider your gleaning of Ancient technology to be true discoveries, even if they were inclined to award a prize to someone who betrayed his whole planet just to get laid."

Rodney can't help it: a startled burst of laughter escapes him that has several heads in the Second Expedition's main physics lab turning their heads towards Kavanagh's little glass-walled office. "Honestly, if that's what you think, I should just let you build your tokamak so I can watch as you blow yourself to smithereens, but since I've no desire to see you take half my city with you, the answer's still: not until I see the math."

When there's no immediate response, Rodney thinks he's won this round and straightens up to go. It's true that he doesn't have time to be doing this right now – he's supposed to be in John's office in ten minutes, for a meeting with the folks in charge of planning their wedding about when they can actually have the wedding without interfering with any of the Confederation's primary signatories' harvest seasons, or some ridiculousness like that. Because apparently it wasn't fitting for the Emperor of Pegasus to get married in the traditional Ancient way, which, like most Ancient ceremonies, involved little more than some paperwork and meditation. It's a load of pomp and circumstance both of them would rather do without, but they'd both known from the moment John had accepted the job their lives would no longer quite be their own.

Still annoying, though.

He's halfway out the door when he hears Kavanagh say, "It's not your city."

He pauses and turns. "It's definitely not yours."

"You don't like me. Fine. I don't particularly like you either. But don't pretend abandoning Earth makes you better than the rest of us. So you have the Ancient gene. So the city supposedly blasts music into your head. That doesn't make Atlantis yours. There are other people who are doing good work here, work that will benefit billions of people. Just because they're people you've turned your back on doesn't make it any less worthy."

"This has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the fact that you're a second-rate scientist who's greased enough palms to get a position you are in no way worthy of or prepared for," he snaps, spiteful enough that he makes sure to speak loud enough for all the eagerly awaiting ears in the main lab to hear.

"Better than being shipped off to the edge of the known universe because nobody wanted you anywhere on Earth."

Rodney knows it's not true. Elizabeth fought to have him on the First Expedition. He'd not been a popular choice. If it had been up to the IOA selection committee, he'd have stayed in Siberia for the rest of his life, in part to smooth over ruffled Russian feathers, always on edge about being the red-headed stepchildren of the Stargate Program, in part to keep the Americans happy, most of whom were still rather upset over that incident with Teal'c a few years back. For them, it has never mattered that he's the smartest person in who galaxies, only that he's not the political choice.

All this is ancient history – lower case "A" – but it still stings.

Unable to think of any response to this that won't generate an intergalactic war, Rodney turns and leaves.

* * *

It is with a creeping sense of dread that Iohannes realizes his Confederation has spawned its first political party.

He doesn't think Allina Huskis, who has managed to become the Daganian Minster for Enterprise and Innovation since he saw her last, fully realizes this yet, but it's true all the same. There are a plethora of people in this galaxy who feel just as she does, all of whom will flock to her banner because that is the kind of person that she is - which is to say, charismatic and fatally self-assured, which seem to be the two primary requirements for a successful politician of any species.

Iohannes can already see her spiritually-flavored version of corporatism gaining footholds throughout in galaxy, particularly on pious planets like Pryderi and Berwyn, where the Ancestral religion as gotten a little too close to the local forms of government. Just as clearly, he can see the countermovement that will undoubtedly soon form on planets like Kenosha and New Athos, where more leftist forms of the ideology have always flourished. And even with the near-unlimited power at his disposal as an Ascended being, the best he can do now is monitor the situation and attempt to moderate the influences of both before they run the chance of tearing his hard-earned Confederation apart.

He should probably also name them before someone else does, if only so they wind up with something he can stand hearing for the next thirty thousand odd years.

Iohannes amuses himself with this for a while, if only because he's supposed to be non-political, or some other bullshit he'd agreed to when it had appeared his position as Emperor would never be more than ceremonial and that Elizabeta would always be around to do the heavy lifting, before Terra had sidestepped into the realm of nearly-enemies and the Lantean race had been reborn in a handful of Descendant exiles with less than a thimble of Alteran blood between them. He has political duties now and people to think about, and he misses having someone above him to tell him when he's wrong and stop him from making mistakes.

Emperors don't make mistakes.

Gods don't make mistakes.

He is Invictus. Unconquered. Invincible.

Maybe he should change his cognomen to that once the Wraith are finally defeated. Iohannes Ianideus Invictus Imperator has a nice ring to it. And if he wants to shout loud enough for the higher planes to hear that he, Iohannes, who broke all their rules and threw them back in their incorporeal faces, had succeeded where they had not? Well, it's his prerogative. Hell, it's his right after all the hell they've put him through.

Maybe he should call her party Moralists. She's certainly used the words duty and moral obligation often enough, which is sort of funny because he'd thought she'd come to the city to complain about the Genii getting more slots in the first class of the University that was set to open come local winter. It's only on the sixteenth iteration of the phrase set a proper example, though, that Iohannes gets what it's really about:

"Y'know," he says, throwing an arm over the back of his chair, "this may be an awkward time to mention it, but when you joined this Confederation, you happened to sign a document that makes homosexual marriage legal."

Allina makes an aggrieved sound, though not for the reasons Iohannes immediately assumes. "I do know, and while that's perfectly fine in principle, you have to think of the example you're setting."

"Not a fan of marriage, Minister Huskis?"

"Of course I support the institution of marriage," she informs him, momentarily thrown off balance - but only for a moment, and she regathers steam quickly. "But the very survival of our civilization depends upon ensuring that we maintains populations too large for the Wraith to cull in their entirety and that any survivors are genetically diverse enough to repopulate their worlds successfully. For that to be possible, every person capable of producing children ought to have at least one, regardless of their proclivities. On Dagan, our Minister for Education shares your preferences, my Lord, but even so he had two children with a similarly disposed woman before engaging in them. As Emperor, it is your duty and moral obligation to set a similar example for the peoples of this galaxy."

"I see."

Flustered again, "That's all you have to say? I see? You are The Star That Fell From Heaven, The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, The Father of All Men and Maker of All Worlds. You are Iohannes Ianideus Icarus Imperator, guardian of this galaxy and its moral centre. If you do not act in the right, who will?"

It's only because Iohannes is trying very hard to be the kind of emperor Pegasus deserves, the kind of god Elizabeta always wanted his people to be, that Iohannes doesn't roll his eyes at the Daganian Minister.

Instead, he lowers his arm from the back of his chair. He's straight-backed in his seat, in a office designed to impose and intimidate in the Central Spire, far from his private office and his hard-won trappings of mortality. He knows from practice that the weight of his gaze will force her to lower her eyes, maybe even take a step or two backwards in attempt to place some distance between them. And if he stares at her long enough, she will break the silence with words of her own, as Allina does now, almost tripping over herself to say:

"Not that I would ever presume to tell you what to do, Your Apostolic Majesty. I only speak of what I would do, were I in your place."

"Uh-huh. And how many children do you have, Minister?"

Allina ducks her head like an admonished child. "None, my Lord."

"So don't you think it's a little hypocritical to be telling me I ought to have some?"

"Perhaps," she admits, raising her eyes again. They don't quite meet his, but they come a lot closer than anyone else has managed in this office. "But I would rather speak the truth and found lacking then hold my tongue and watch everything we've worked so hard to accomplish crumble."

"I hardly think the Confederation will fall if I fail to have children, Minister. But," he adds, raising a finger before she can renew her protests, "I will mention your concerns to Doctor McKay and we will both abide by his decision, whatever it may be."

"That is all I ask, my Lord," she says and, with slight bob, leaves just as quickly as she came.

Iohannes presses the heels of his hands to his forehead for one long moment. He counts to ten and takes a long, slow breath that serves no biological purpose whatsoever but seems to help all the same before bringing his hand to his earwig and telling Jinto to send the next one in.

* * *

23 February, 2007 / XXXVII Apr. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

It's late when Rodney gets back to the suite – or really early, depending upon the perspective. He'd not honestly planned to stay in his lab until the small hours of the Lantean morning, but he'd had a thought about a way of improving his Cogitatus (as John had so originally named his modified goa'uld memory recall device) after the meeting with the wedding planner, which had led to three hours of coding he'd honestly not factored into his schedule this morning.

(The three hours he'd spent complaining to Radek about how monumentality unfair it is that Kavanagh would undoubtedly earn a Nobel for his work in magnetic confinement fusion before Rodney earned any of his for the simple fact that Kavanagh's tokamak could be built using declassified technology and his couldn't probably hadn't helped matters either. But it is momentously unfair, especially as all Kavanagh is doing modifying existing Terran technology with a little Ancient know-how, while Rodney's basically working to recreate Ancient science from the top down.)

Either way, he'd stayed in his lab far longer than he'd intended. He'd been surprised when he'd looked at the clock, not just to see how the hours had flown, but because John usually came to drag him off to bed long before then if whatever he was working on wasn't urgent. These late-night hours are all they reliably get to see each other anymore, what with all their responsibilities as Imperator and Rector, and they guard them jealously.

The fact that John had not tried to pull him away from his work tonight probably means there's some minor crisis going on that requires his attention, so Rodney's expecting the suite to be empty when he enters. At first, it even appears to be – but that's before he hears the slight whisper of noise coming from the suite's little-used kitchen.

"John?" he calls out because, well, John has less reason than anyone to use the kitchen. It contains a coffee pot and a couple cans of Molson's and that's about it as far as anything edible goes – neither of which John particularly cared for before his Ascension. Of the rest, he thinks some of the drawers have been given over to random bits of broken technology, and that the racks designed for pots and pans have been repurposed for weapons that, again, John has little use for now, but largely it remains unused.

"In here."

"Is everything alright?" he asks, passing through the kitchen doorway-

-to find John sitting on the long, cushioned bench that runs along the far wall, just under the windows that would give a magnificent view of the ocean if it weren't nearly 0300. Of course, sitting might be pushing it a little. What he's doing is more akin to perching on the edge of one of the cushions and leaning forward until his head just about brushes the table in front of him. With his arms wrapped tightly around his middle and his usual layers abandoned for a simple tunic and pants, he looks like a lost and lonely child, more Fallen then The Star That Fall From Heaven.

"Everything's fine." His voice is a little too loud, a little too brittle to be normal, though. If Rodney didn't know any better, he'd say John's been crying, but in the nearly three years they've known each other – in the nearly two-and-a-half years they've been together – he's never once known John to cry.

"Doesn't look that way from here."

John lifts his head just enough to offer him a tight, splintery smile. "They did it." There's a touch of red about his eyes, a touch of pallor to his skin, but other than that there is nothing to suggest tears that, in all probability, never occurred.

"Who did what?"

"SG-1. They found Jackson and activated the Sangraal."

Rodney frowns as he pulls out one of the chairs opposite. "That's a good thing, right? No more Ori – or didn't it work?"

"Oh, no. It worked. The Haeretici are gone, all of them but for the Abomination, Adria, who remains on this plane of existence. The greatest enemy the Alteran people ever faced, wiped out in less time than it takes to breathe…"

"And again, that's a good thing, right?"

"It's a good thing," John agrees, decidedly watery. "But they turned it on too soon. They didn't just get the Haeretici in the home galaxy, they got everyone who ever Ascended in Avalon too. It's what I wanted, but... Star Wars had it wrong."

Rodney blinks at the sudden change of direction. "What's Star Wars got to do with anything?"

"If Obi-Wan really had heard a great disturbance […], as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced, he'd not be standing around quietly afterwards. He'd be a gibbering mess too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The science behind Kavanagh's tokamak is as sound as I can make it, largely borrowed from what Wikipedia and Michio Kaku have to say on the topic. Basically, if successful, think of a modern energy revolution on par with the discovery of Steam Power or Electricity. 2) Yes, Allina is from "The Brotherhood", and the last name I've given her is in tribute of the first person to be killed by a train, who held her position in the British government at the time. 3) The third of this was written largely listening to "Safe and Sound", off the S3 revised soundtrack, over and over again. 4) Cogniatus means Devices in Latin. 5) If any one's really interested in the politics starting here, I'll write up some notes on the various parties if you'd like. 6) And, yes, Ascensiones means Ascended Ones.


	31. Ascensiones, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, at first, flowed. I wrote nearly the entire first section in 1 day. But towards the end I realized I was getting weighed down by details (and had been for days; this portion's been finished since like Fri night). 
> 
>  
> 
> 1) Josua has been mentioned on and off since "Pastor". He has a rather interesting backstory that I might one day write after I write everyone else's. 2) The Schismatica has also been mentioned on and off since "Somniati". 3) Escors is idiot. 4) We are a year out from the events of "Fradator," for perspective.

Ascensiones

An Ancient!John Story

10 March, 2007 / XII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"Icarus."

There's a gasp from near Iohannes' knees, where a Kenoshan seamstress is putting the final touches on his Coronation robes, and a quick glance in the mirror shows a figure standing behind him that had not been there a second before. "Josua," he acknowledges before casting a glance back to the young woman. "You probably don't want to be around for this."

"No, milord," she mutters, quickly gathering her things before rushing out the door as fast as her legs can carry her.

Good for her. At least one of them can escape what is certain to be an unpleasant conversation.

They stand in silence for a minute or two.

For his own part, Iohannes decidedly doesn't turn around, choosing instead to examine his reflection in the mirror and take in the full effect of the elaborate silver embroidery down the front. It takes the shape of flowers and branches, moons and stars. It's a little more flamboyant than he'd have chosen for himself if given half the chance, but he'd left the details for his coronation in the hands of those rather more capable.

(-and, frankly, rather more interested. He could care less about his crown so long as having one means he can do what needs to be done to stop the Wraith.)

He can only hope that the ones being prepared for the wedding are less fussy. So far, the chances don't appear to be good.

"It is good to see that your fashion sense has improved over the millennia," Josua says at last, favouring Iohannes' reflection with a slight nod. "Though I find it curious you have gone to the trouble of having your clothing tailored when it is easily within your abilities to create any garments you should desire with but a thought."

"I have my reasons."

"You always did."

"Why are you here, Josua?" he sighs, turning around at last.

Had there been any sympathy in the other man's gaze, Iohannes thinks he might have been willing to hear him out. Unlike so many of the others, whose cold indifference had spurred a bitter hate within him, which had shattered with their deaths and left Iohannes numb inside for days, Josua Lal Tribunus had been a friend. Perhaps not a friend as the Terrans would define one, but a friend nonetheless. They had been children together, the only two in their generation, until Nicolaa had been born. They had played together, served in the War together; planned the city's defenses together. Perhaps they had not been close – becoming pastor so young had decidedly quashed any possibly of that early on, – but they'd still been friends of a kind.

But there is none. Only hardness and sharpness and the lingering nostalgia for how simple everything had been Before, when they were still friends, when the Wraith were their only enemies and it seemed like the Alteran species would weather any storm, as it had done for a billion years already and would assuredly do for a billion more.

"Mother sent me."

"Yeah, I guessed that myself actually," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "How about some details here, buddy? Like why Ganos Lal decided to send her only child down to my little ol' plane of existence and scare off my seamstress? 'Cause I gotta tell you, that sort of thing right there smacks of interference."

"I will defer to your expertise on the matter," he says, and there's the hint of a smile that Iohannes had been looking for, but it's too late now. Then, more soberly, "Are you aware of the events your Terran brethren have precipitated?"

"It's kinda hard to miss the sound of a billion people crying out at once, especially when it leaves behind that kind of silence."

"Yes," Josua agrees quietly. "Then you are also aware that they activated the Sangraal too soon. The Haeretici were not the only victims of the device. It was active long enough to slaughter every Ascended being in Avalon, as well as destroy whatever remained of those peaceable ones who Ascended in the home galaxy before the Schisma. Only those of us in Pegasus at the time were spared."

"And how many's that?"

"Fifty-four, counting yourself and the Schismatica."

Fifty-four survivors of the last iteration of the greatest race to ever touch the stars. Fifty-four out of the billions who'd ever lived. Fifty-four out of the millions who'd ever Ascended. It's difficult to wrap his head around. As much as he hates them for their part in his own Ascension, he's never actively wanted them destroyed. Showed up? Yes. Busted down a peg? Certainly. But destroyed? The thought had never even crossed Iohannes' mind.

He swallows. He can remember ten thousand years of silence just fine. He doesn't need to contemplate a future filled with more, not if he wants to keep what's left of his sanity. "Again, what does this have to do with me?"

"It is time to come home, Icarus."

"Atlantis is home."

"Atlantis is for mortals. Ascended beings belong on the higher planes."

"Is that so?"

"You know it is, Icarus. Terrible things happen when folks like us start getting involved in the lower planes. The Haeretici are merely the worst example."

Iohannes wants to shake him. "Stop blinding yourself with dogma, Josua. We weren't born to live just for ourselves. We were born with the privilege of strength into a society that conquered war and poverty and sickness long before our births; it's our duty to help those less fortunate than ourselves, to keep them from making the same mistakes our people did."

"Mother taught us the same lessons. You know as well as I that every time we have tried to help younger species we have only ever given them the reins to their own destruction. Morderatus, Gaheris, Valuanii – we destroyed each of those worlds through our ignorance and our arrogance and created the Haeresis in the process." He shakes his head. "No, Icarus. The only way to prevent more suffering is to let the universe take its course. Other blue worlds will be destroyed, yes, but others shall survive and their people will be the wiser for it."

"I'm not gonna stand by and watch people suffer when I can do something about it!"

"You will destroy yourself if you don't."

Iohannes throws up his hands and turns his back on Josua, furious at his obstinacy-

-but he can still see the other man in the mirror, his entire countenance filled with genuine concern. Ganos might have sent him here, but Josua honestly believes everything he's saying. He earnestly believes that, despite his best intentions, Iohannes will become a Haereticus; the only question is one of timing.

He wants to hate Josua. Everything would be so much easier if he could hate him. Yet Iohannes can easily remember a dozen times that Josua stood by his side Before, doing everything from making excuses to his mother about why Iohannes was not in class that day to helping him convince the Council to follow through on Iohannes' plans for what would eventually be the Battle of Tirianus. They'd never had the closeness he'd shared with Nicolaa (even before their relationship had turned romantic in nature), but he'd still been friendly.

It's with that friendship in mind Josua continues, "I cannot deny that you have done good works during your emperorship. You have ensured basic freedoms for those who, without your interference, would have remained underrepresented or disenfranchised for centuries to come. You have established a system to provide basic healthcare and elementary education to thousands. Most importantly, you have given all the peoples of this galaxy hope for the future and a means to bring that future about. You have achieved more in a single year than any Alteran has in twenty-five millennia.

"But now it is time to put aside those things. You are not of this plane. Your further presence here can only harm those you've fought so hard to protect; the fact that it has not already is a matter of chance, not providence.

"Return home with me, Icarus," he pleads. "Help us. Mother speaks of rebuilding our civilization. There has even been talk of finding a peaceable planet and Descending en masse, to give our species a second chance. But regardless of whatever is decided, your assistance would be invaluable. And you would not risk the lives of so many in the process."

Iohannes closes his eyes. It's not the offer that tempts him; it's the idea of finally belonging. But the Other's offer is too late. He's found a new people, a better cause. He has a place here. They want him.

"Or you could just Descend me."

Josua sighs. Whatever friendship they may have once had, it will not help him here.

He doesn't wait for a reply. "Or you could join me," he offers instead.

Josua blinks, visibly nonplussed by the suggestion.

"Join me," Iohannes repeats, turning at last back to face him. "All of you – Ganos, Chaya, everyone else who's still around. Think of all the good we could do if we worked together, all the people we could help – not just in this galaxy, but in all of them. The Descendants would easily accept a pantheon-"

"That is Haeresis."

"It's only Haeresis if you actually start believing you're a god."

"That is not how it works, Icarus."

"As the guy currently doing just that, I think I know."

"How long did it take for you to start believing your own lies?" Josua asks, a strange sense of revelation passing over his face. "How much longer will it take for you to start giving over to the Haeretici's excesses? Or is it too late for that as well?"

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I? Then come with me now, while you still can. Stop this madness and save the lives of a billion people whose only fault was in having too much faith in a being no less fallible than themselves."

"I can't control what people think, Josua. All I can do is keep telling them I'm not a god. The people of this galaxy aren't stupid; their development has just been stymied because of the Wraith. One day they'll advance enough that they'll finally believe me. Until that day comes, all I can do is deal with it as best I can."

"Call it what you will, Icarus, it still looks like Haeresis from where I stand." He shakes his head, something sad and heavy in his pale grey eyes. "I must tell Mother."

"Jo- Josuea!" he begins, but it's too late. Josua is gone, back to whatever corner of the higher planes he's been hiding in all these millennia.

Iohannes spins round and slams his fist into the mirror. The glass breaks, but the shards fall harmlessly to the ground, passing through his false flesh as if it were no more than a shadow.

"Excors!"

* * *

He finds Carson in his office on the tenth floor of Tower Forty, which after recent renovations is now serving as the main building for the IHC. There's still some construction work going on in the middle levels – as advanced as they Ancients were, they'd not needed anything resembling an ICU and as such building adequate intensive care facilities where there had been none is not a small task – but this floor, at least, is finished, if only because they'd not needed to make any major changes to the layout to get suitable offices for the medical staff.

Though they had added placards next to all the doors, so that people would actually have half an idea of where they were and where they were going when they ended up transported somewhere they hadn't intended. John had disliked the idea, saying, "If you immediately know the candlelight is fire, then the meal was cooked a long time ago," but had been overruled by the rest of the senior staff on the matter.

John had pouted for days after that decision. Though that might have had something more to do with the recent deployment of the Sangraal, which had wiped out nearly every Ascended being in existence, then the ballistic office supplies Zelenka had threatened to send in his direction if he didn't let them have their way.

Either way, Rodney finds Carson in the office actually marked Carson Beckett – a mark-the-calendars first – with the doors stuck in the open position, giving a clear view of the chaos within: Half-a-dozen packing crates crowd the entry way. Piles of charts and reference materials are stacked haphazardly upon every flat surface, more than one of them threatening to slide to the floor at the first clack of the air recycling units. A painter's ladder leans inexplicably against one wall, apparently secunded for use as a valet stand. No less than three of the long-sleeved robes Teyla's seamstress friends keep making for them hang from the rungs; his lab coat has missed the ladder entirely and lies in a heap at its foot.

In the centre of it all is Carson, who's actually managed to fall asleep at his desk, which is in itself an impressive feat as Rodney's not actually sure how he managed to get behind his desk in the first place. There's no clear pathway through the clutter and, unless it closed behind him, Rodney rather thinks a point-to-point transporter – of the Star Trek variety – has to have been used.

"Carson," he says, manoeuvring between stacks.

There's no response.

"Carson," he tries again, rather more loudly this time, wedging himself into the space between the desk and the visitors' chairs, both piled high with a riot of luridly coloured binders – pink and neon green, canary yellow and cadmium orange.

There's still no response.

There are a few empty square inches of desktop within reach and, for lack of a better option, Rodney slams his hands down on the heavy metal surface. Files shift. Journals slide. A cup filled with pens, tenuously perched on one of the outer stacks, smashes to the floor with an explosion of ink and cheap ceramic.

"Wow. That actually is kind of impressive," he admits with a strange sort of awe when Carson doesn't so much as stir. "Figure out how to bottle this and we could fund Atlantis for a lifetime." Shaking his head, he says, "Paging Doctor Beckett," more out of exasperation then real expectation.

Carson's head snaps up. A sheet of paper sticks to one side of his face as his hands go for a beeper that's not on his belt – or, thankfully, anywhere in this galaxy.

"I cannot believe that just worked. In fact, I refuse to believe it. You are the Chief of Medicine, the guy who I'm supposed to trust with his hands messing around with my insides, and I'm going to go on deluding myself that you sleep regular hours in your own bed and don't have what looks like a stick figure dog on your face. Purely for my own sanity, I hope you understand. "

"I thought you said sleep was for the weak?" Carson asks, sounding remarkably awake considering how deeply he'd been asleep less than a minute before. He unsticks the sheet of paper off his face and turns it around with a frown. "And it is supposed to be a sheep."

"God, that's just worse. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. So I'm going to ask you why you aren't having your minions do your paperwork instead of devoting brain power to coming up with an adequate response to that."

"This is nae paperwork, Rodney."

"You still have minions."

"Not that I'd trust with this."

"What is it?" he asks, only distantly interested, moving some of the binders from one chair to another. The additional weight causes the second chair to creak dangerously. Rodney decides he doesn't really need to sit down after all.

"My notes on Michael."

Maybe he does need to sit down. "Carson…" he begins awkwardly, unsure where to go from there. There's no safe ground.

"I know what you're going to say. I know Laura's death was nae my fault. Be-" he chokes up a little here, "Being fed upon is a traumatic experience. Her heart just could nae take it. Nothing I could have done could have saved her. But the Wraith retrovirus was my idea, as was the live trial. I had Michael brought here. My experiment failed. I as good as killed her."

No, he wants to say. Your experiment failed, but John killed her. He killed her because you could have saved her and she didn't want to be saved. Not if it meant the kind of life she would have had after. But he can't, because he made a promise, so what he says instead is, "No you didn't. You did exactly what you should have. None of us could have guessed he'd manage to escape like he did."

"He'd never have been on Atlantis-"

"And she'd never have been on Atlantis if O'Neill had never discovered the Antarctic Outpost and Jackson hadn't found the Gate address. And we'd never have done either of those if some Ancient hadn't left really creepy Repositories of Knowledge throughout the Milky Way. And humanoid life wouldn't even be on Earth if the Ancients hadn't lost their war with the Ori sixty-something million years ago. You start pointing fingers here and soon enough you're start blaming the universe for expanding."

Carson rubs a hand across his eyes. This only seems to increase their redness. "Logically, I know that, Rodney, but my heart keeps telling me that I could have saved her if only I'd done something different."

"Don't tell me you've been working on it all this time." He can be unobservant at times, but Rodney's certain he'd have noticed if Carson'd been working himself up into this state every night since Cadman's death. Carson's his best friend. As busy as Rodney has been, as wrapped up as he's been with everything that's been going on with John, he had to have noticed that much. He had to.

"Nae. I've tried nae to think about it, actually. And I've been so busy, what with everything else that I've nae had time. But then I looked at the calendar last night and realized that realized she's been gone for almost a year and…"

And so he pulled out his notes and did the only thing he could: try to figure out what he could have done differently to save her.

Rodney understands. He really does. He's done the same too many times to honestly count and will, undoubtedly, only add to that figure in the future. He knows how destructive it can be, how dangerous. Hell, the proof's in its port behind the mastoid skin of his right ear. "What you need," he says sagely, "is a distraction."

"A distraction?" Carson repeats with an air of tired amusement and half a watery smile.

"Yes. Like you've said, it's been almost a year, and while I've got to admire the whole dedication to your dead girlfriend thing you've got going on, I'm pretty sure she'd be kicking your ass ten ways to Sunday if she could see you now."

"Aye, that's true."

"So what do you think about Keller?"

"Keller!"

"What? She's moderately intelligent and not exactly hard to look at. What more could you want?"

"That sounds like your type, Rodney, nae mine."

Rodney considers this. "Alright, you've got me there. But don't worry, I've got an even better way to take your mind off things."

"Oh?"

"I need you," he says, pulling a small box out of his pocket, "to put this into my brain."


	32. Ascensiones, Part 2.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I intended to leave off part 2 the other day. But I sort of lost the will to continue with it, and really don't think it works as part of the next chappie or as one of it's own... so chapter 2.5

In the end, it's the rather cavilling fact that the device Rodney wants inserted into his head doesn't actually get put into his brain that convinces Carson to agree to preform the surgery. Granted, as far as Rodney's concerned, sticking a small computer bus the size of his thumbnail into his spinal cord between his C2 and C3 vertebrae is the same as having what essentially amounts to a mental expansion card inserted into his brain, but he's not about to quibble if hair-splitting gets him the results he desires.

-although desire might be underselling things a bit. Need would probably be more accurate a term, but that's more prevaricating he'd rather not get into when doing so could mean the difference between survival and destruction.

The story goes like this:

The Cogniatus is flawed. Fundamentally. Rodney designed it on Earth to work with the technology he had access to at the time – which is to say, computers with clock rates of a few gigahertz and processing power barely approaching a dozen petaflops. Compared to the human brain, this is piffling. The data any one of these was capable of sending over the neural uplink was insignificant compared to the quotidian functionality of his mind. A bucket of water would have more effect upon a reservoir; side effects rarely included more than a headache and the occasional dizzy spell.

But Rodney's not on Earth any longer. On Atlantis, even the most primitive of Terran computers is networked to the city to such a degree that, on some level, they're no longer distinguishable from the city's own AI. 'Lantis has absorbed everything, from the earwigs all personnel wear to their personal computers all the way on up to the server banks that the Second Expedition thinks are too heavily encrypted and firewalled for the expatriates of the First to crack.

This is the mistake the had made when designing his first device. There is no division between the city and the AI. Where there is an integrated circuit, there is 'Lantis. Where there is a hard disk drive or solid-state disk, 'Lantis is there as well. And where there is an embedded computer or wireless connection or peripheral device, some portion of the city's consciousness exists, waiting to call the rest of her great and terrible concentration upon the poor soul who sparked her interest at any given moment. Which is precisely what has happened each time Rodney's tried to use the Cogniatus since returning home.

Simply put, Atlantis is capable of sending exponentially more data through the neural link than Rodney anticipated, and although the human mind is far superior to any Terran computer, even it has its limits. There is only so much data it can process at any given time and when that maximum is reached it looks for background programs to stop running so it can try to process more – background programs in this instance being things like tactile perception and cardiovascular function.

This is, naturally, a problem. What Rodney eventually realizes, however, is that John and Lorne have the exact same problem. Their nanoids allow them to interact with the city in the exact same way his Cogniatus is meant to simulate, but, unlike Rodney, they don't go keeling over every time 'Lantis wants to debate interior design with them. It makes no sense-

-until he goes back to the reservoir metaphor. Because just as a reservoir has a limit of how much water it can hold, it also has spillways to deal with anything extra that comes its way. And, like a spillway, John and Lorne's nanoids are capable of taking all those pesky background programs that would otherwise be shut down and outsourcing them to a place that can more than handle it. Atlantis sends data in, they send data right back, and everybody gets to continue to breathe as they should.

Which is what the latest device he's created is designed to do. It can be that spillway for his mind. So Rodney can keep breathing. So his heart can keep beating. So the headaches will go away and he can maybe keep a meal down on the days following his use of the Cogniatus.

It's only after he explains all of this that Carson agrees to preform the procedure. He's still understandably leery, but apparently sticking a tiny chip through the disc that separates Rodney's C2 and C3 vertebrae so that it can brush up against his spinal cord is less upsetting to the good doctor than preforming traditional brain surgery. But again, Rodney won't quibble. Not on this. He needs the Cogniatus if they are to keep one step ahead of the Wraith and the Replicators and the Second Expedition and all the other enemies waiting at their door. An emperor not yet crowned, twenty-four Terran exiles, and what technologies they can beg, build, or scrounge hold the Confederation together. If they falter, nearly two hundred planets will fall with them.

He can only hope John forgives him when he finds out.


	33. Ascensiones, Part 3.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give up. RL is making it take too long to write a chappie, and the chappie as it stands is already approaching 4k words, so I'm just going to post the sections of the chappie as I finish them before I delete it all and loose all faith in my writing abilities. So this is PART ONE of CHAPTER THREE. There will be more. Probably two more parts. This one has actually been finished for weeks now; it is the next that is taking so much time. Please send love and support, or magically fix my boss's wrist, or make the writing I do on the back of receipt paper more legible.

19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"Would someone care to explain to me," Iohannes says, gesturing at one of the chairs stacked in the corner and waving it into the centre of the room, "why two of my scientists thought it might be a good idea to get into a kerfuffle with four of the new Expedition's rather rugged young Marines?

"Now, don't get me wrong," he adds, somewhat ameliorant as he spins the chair around to sit in it backwards, "I admire the moxie. It's not often a couple of botanists with three doctorates and four asthma medications between them decide to start a lop-sided brawl, particularly with guys who have ten years and twenty pounds of muscle on them. I just think it's a little odd, because usually my scientists have much better sense then to get into fistfights. Especially when I made it very clear before the new Expedition arrived that we're not trying to start an intergalactic war." Very clear.

Doctor Brandon Nelson continues to nurse his broken jaw with silent fury, not quite meeting Iohannes' eyes but not actively avoiding them either. The sleeves of his houpelande flop back where he holds an ice pack to the break as he waits for Doctor Keller to return with whatever it is Terrans need to fix an injury of this sort. Both of his knuckles are bruised and bloodied, and from the way he's holding the left Iohannes wouldn't be surprised if he's managed to break something there as well. Nelson had gotten in a couple of good punches before having his lights knocked out, that much is obvious, as is the fact that he doesn't have the first clue how to hit someone. Again, tenacious. Stupid too.

Doctor Zachary Richards, who's only managed to break a wrist in the process of getting two black eyes and a busted lip, lowers the rag he's holding to his lip long enough to say, "They deserved it, Sheppard."

"I'm sure they did," Iohannes agrees. "But that doesn't mean you should give it to them."

"It does if you'd heard the kind of things they were saying."

"Enlighten me, Doctor Richards."

Eyes going wide, "No, Sir. No way," he says, shaking his head harder than is probably advisable for someone with the number of cuts and bruises on his face. One of the ones on his cheek opens itself at the movement, sending a steady stream of blood down his neck, staining his collar a dark, brilliant red. Richards doesn't appear to notice.

"I see. What about you, Doctor Nelson? You feel like sharing with the class?"

Despite his broken jaw, Nelson actually manages a halfway intelligible, "Uh huh," before hurrying to replace his icepack, glowering at it out of the corner of his eye as if it were responsible for his current condition and not some Marine's fist.

Iohannes shakes his head. "Don't make me regret this, you two," he orders, reaching towards their injuries with both hands and calling upon his healing powers.

With the coronation party still going strong on the far side of the city, the energy replenishes itself faster than he can expend it. He sends as much of it as he dares into Richards and Nelson, not only healing their injuries, but also lowering their blood alcohol level back to zero and clearing out the excess plaque in their veins. In the latter, Iohannes finds the start of an epithelioma basocellulare and purges the damaged cells from his body much as he'd done with Dahlia Radhim's leuchaemia. In the former, he does what he can to lower the hypertension he finds, although there is admittedly very little he can do that will have lasting effect. Only when he's healed all he can without delving into their genes that he pulls back.

But there's still too much power coursing through his veins – too much faith screaming at him to take and hold and seize as much of it as he can for as long as he can, until there's no one left in the universe with capability to hurt the ones he loves.

It's not a new problem. Faith is power. Those who would call him god have been unwittingly strengthening him since the moment he Ascended. And while the faith of one is admittedly small, no more than a thimbleful compared to the innate power of an Ascended being, the faith of millions is a different story entirely.

And it is now truly the faith of millions: Two hundred thirteen planets in the Pegasus galaxy are now signatories to the Charter of the Confederation with another two-dozen in high-level talks to join. The number that considers him a god is almost four times as large. That's ten percent of the inhabited galaxy. It's not even been a year since he admitted to little Raichael Pero – now called Sancta Rachel on certain worlds – that he was one of their Ancestors. On some days, Iohannes can scarcely imagine what it will be like when all of Pegasus calls out his name in their prayers. It is so easy to see how so many fell to the first Haeresis.

It would be so easy to fall.

It wouldn't even be a fall. All he would have to do is take that last step and fly and fly and fly.

Richards looks at him, no longer swollen eyes full of awe. They're wide, as if he'd forgotten the healing portion of Iohannes' Ascended abilities or, maybe, never having thought he'd rank high enough to benefit from them, and such a dark brown they're more easily called black.

A tendril of faith reaches out to him from the young botanist, so impossibly young looking at that moment, though there are others younger by far in the city tonight.

Iohannes pulls back his hands as if scalded.

That's not supposed to happen. The Terrans are supposed to know better. All of them. Even the botanists.

Doctor Nelson just lowers his icepack and tests his newly healed jaw. "Thank God."

"Forget the thanks. Frankly, I'd prefer the story of how you broke it."

"Not much to tell, Sheppard. They said some things they shouldn't have and I lost my temper, and Zach here tried to help me out."

"What kinds of things?"

"Nothing much at first. We left the party before they did, but were moving kind of slow cause I had a little too much of Doctor Zelenka's moonshine – thanks for saving me from the hangover, by the way; I was not looking forward to that – so they caught up with us before too long. We overheard Corporal Howell say something about the coronation your morning and how, if it was so fancy, what's your wedding going to be like? You know, that kind of stuff.

"But then Sergeant Carr wondered which of you is going to take the woman's part, which led to Sergeant Herrera trying to figure out who takes the woman's part elsewhere, if you know what I mean. Sir," he tacks on ungracefully, checks stained red beneath the flecks of dried blood that still remain.

Iohannes raises an eyebrow. Ascended or not, Terran prejudices about sexuality are something he's resigned himself to never understanding. "If you started an intergalactic incident over something Zelenka has a betting pool over, I'm going to be very disappointed in the both of you."

"Yessir. I mean, no, Sheppard. It wasn't that. Not just that. It's what they said after. About how you, er, must be a really good lay if you could convince Major Lorne to give up the uniform."

His eyebrow climbs higher. "Well, that's moderately original at least. Still not a reason to cause an intergalactic incident, though."

Richards shakes his head, speaking up at last. The whisper of his faith is still there, but it's quiet, lurking in the shadows, flaring at the most unexpected of times. It's the worst kind of faith, if only because it allows Iohannes to forget what they really think of him until the moments where it's impossible to ignore. "It wasn't that either. I mean, it was bad, but the Marines say things like that all the time trying to get a rise out of those of us who came here on Aurora; some of the civilians too. Disgusting as it is, we've kind of learned to ignore it. Gunny must have thought so, 'cause he lit into the sergeants for suggesting it."

"Mighty nice of him."

"Yeah," Nelson snorts, "until he said that whatever hold you have over the Major is some kind of black magic. Said that they were idiots to believe you are who you say you are, that you're just a wolf in sheep's clothing, and the day will come when we'd all see you are worse than the Ori."

A breath Iohannes does not need lodges itself in his throat, congealing into an unpalatable and impassable tumescence that straightens his shoulders and curls his hands into fists where they rest on the metal back of his chair. The coldest of furies rouses in his stomach, leeching into his heart and sending terrible tides of ice water through his veins. He's given up everything for this galaxy. He's Ascended twice because of them. He's allowed them to crown him imperator, to call him God. He's crossed every line he's ever made himself for their sakes, to protect them, to save them from the Wraith and the Asurans and the Haeretici and every other nightmare his people had left behind. He's given every broken inch of himself fighting their wars and playing their politics and trying to keep them alive. He spent ten thousand years and more in the dark and the silence, never having anything for himself until he reached out and took it.

He hadn't hated his life Before, but he'd kill to keep the one he has now – he has killed for it – and nothing some snotty-nosed Terran Marines, who may have spent their entire adult lives waging their planet's wars but know absolutely nothing about fighting when there's nothing less than the survival of themselves and everyone they hold dear on the line can do to jeopardize that. But still his muscles tauten and blood rushes like liquid helium through his veins. Iohannes thinks that if the gunnery sergeant in question had been in the room at right then, his actions would have been utterly beyond his control. No body, just constituent atoms released from their bonds too quickly to settle down into a nice pile of ash.

But the gunny isn't there. He's across the ward with his comrades, weaving some excuse to Argathelianus and Major Teldy about how the big bad botanists tried to jump them, or something.

"I see," Iohannes says at last, though no more than seconds can have passed. His voice sounds remarkably normal, even to his own ears. "In that case, I guess I should be having this talk with the Marines. And, in the meantime, you two should get some sleep, 'cause you'll be reporting to Ronon first thing in the morning for hand-to-hand training. Unless," he adds archly, stalling their protestations, "you'd like to make it for every morning for a month."

"Yes sir," Richards agrees glumly.

Iohannes pushes himself out of the chair and sends it, slowly spinning, back to its corner. It looks like he has a gunnery sergeant to talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Zachary Richards and Brandon Nelson are of my own creation. Both are Emigres, former US citizens, and worked at Duke University pre-Hegria. They are botanists by trade, were members of the original Expedition, and are not gene users. 2) Yes, i have random details like this for almost everyone I write into the story. 3) Houpelande is the name for the long-sleeved outfit I've had Teyla's seamstress friend dress everyone in. Because I can. (and it fits into the culture more than my other options). 4) epithelioma basocellula is the latin name for a type of rare(ish) skin cancer. 5) In case you've forgotten during the hiatius-like thing, this takes place in the wee hours of the morning following John's coronation.


	34. Ascensiones, Part 3.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on the last page of this for weeks. The rest has been finished for ages. I decided that once I finally finished it, I had to post it or else delete it forever and abandon everything. So, as this has the scene that was the whole POINT of writing this story.... Please be merciful.

19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

The tiles are bitter cold against his knees, even through the heavy fustian of his robes. The sleeves keep getting in the way, sliding down Rodney's forearms every time he leans forward, but he'd been too much of a hurry to deal with the get-up's thousand-and-one buttons when this began and now he can't find the strength to move away long enough to rid himself of it. Even the thought of pulling away proves to be too much and with an unintelligible moan Rodney bows once more to the porcelain throne.

When he finally leans back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead on the rim. It, at least, is pleasantly cool against his brow, which gives him something to think about other than the thing that's finally finished dying in his mouth.

/Do you intend to die in this washroom,/ the city asks wryly, /or should we send for medical assistance?/

Rodney groans and, feeling there's no danger of him throwing up again as there's no way on Earth – or Lantea – that there's anything left in his stomach after the last four times, collapses on the floor. The toilet offers an uninspiring vision in the foreground, but the position at least allows him to glare at the ceiling with only the smallest of efforts. "I totally understand all those times John called you a bitch now."

'Lantis, being 'Lantis, raises the lights in the room to twice their normal brightness before dropping them back to a merciful ten percent in retaliation. /The universe is the one at fault,/ 'Lantis corrects. /We are just the poor, unfortunate urbs-navis who'd rather we didn't have to wash blood out of our grout again, yours in particular./

"Not bleeding," Rodney corrects, stomach rolling.

/We are not all that fond of any bodily fluids being where they were not intended./

"I'll remember that in case my stomach manages to find something else it wants to get rid of." He doesn't think it's likely, but the organ has been surprising him today with the things it's managed to dredge up out of the dark recesses of his digestive track. Last week's lunch, for instance, and what he's fairly certain was the remains of his high school's infamous Meatloaf Surprise, where the only surprise, as far as Rodney had been able to ascertain, was that anyone had thought to call it meatloaf.

/Thank you,/ the city says primly.

"You're welcome."

Her song shifts, becoming light-hearted, playful even. If she were human, he imagines she'd be shaking her head at him and trying not to smile. But she is not human; her winsome affections take shape in dimmed lights and quieted air recycling units, but the meaning is the same. He's only been pastor for a week, but he's suspected as much since the moment he first heard her song in his head so many years ago. /Do you still require medical assistance?/

What Rodney needs is his own bed, a handful of Aspirin, and his body weight in water. He's had more to drink tonight than he can honestly remember, but it had started with ruus wine at the dinner celebrating John's coronation, moved briefly to champagne while supplies held out at the party afterwards, and settled on a nameless cocktail that was one part pineapple juice and two parts arrack. He'd not intended to drink that much, but, god, people are stupid sometimes. While they hadn't gotten any less stupid, Rodney had been less inclined to care with each passing drink, until finally he was drunk enough that he could deal with the overenthusiastic well-wishers, would-be hangers-on, and political opportunists that had flocked to his side when they'd been unable to find John's.

What he needs is never to hear the phrases The God's Consort or The Ancestor's Intended appended to his name ever again. Not because they aren't true enough, but because everyone who'd spoken them tonight had made it out to be all that he was. Like he wasn't rector of Atlantis in his own right, like his greatest accomplishment was not the ATLAS Device or the Intergalactic Gate Bridge or the pair of devices of his own devising shoved into his brain that allowed him to talk to Atlantis, but the fact that he'd been able to get John into his bed. Which had made him drink still more.

What he needs is for people to remember that the Wraith are the enemy, not the worlds that want the Confederation to take a different path than they do. Allina Huskis' association of religiously motivated corporatists, the Moralists, wants little better than to shape the galaxy to their vision of the Ancestral religion. Dozens of worlds have flocked to her banner, her pseudoscientific excuses giving way to scripture as her powerbase grows. Dozens of others have banded together to oppose them under the leadership of one of the Athosians, spouting many of the same thoughts but replacing much of the god rhetoric with socialist economic theory of much the same bent. John calls them the Mutualists, though their politics are even more proto than Allina's. Even the ones not belonging to either party have their own agendas and none of them stop at getting rid of the Wraith. And all of them want him to carry their words to John, who cannot be bothered to stay for longer than twenty minutes at a party in his own honour.

"I think I'll be fine if I can make it to the transporter," he says at last. From there, it's a straight shot to his suite, his bed, and – if necessary – his bathroom.

/The vectura is at the end of the hall./

"I think I can manage it this time without any more detours." His stomach protests but is ultimately quiescent as he eases to his feet.

/Perhaps you should wait. Let us send for Iohannes,/ the city suggests, air recyclers clattering concernedly, /or Argathelianus./

"I'm a big boy, 'Lantis. I don't need someone to tuck me in."

/That is not what… we… mean…/ The city begins only to trail off as he leaves the washroom, faltering as Rodney discovers the cause of her hesitation: one of John's sycophants, standing just outside the washroom door as if she'd been waiting for him. Which she most certainly has.

Awkwardly, "Oh. Hello Allina. I didn't, er, see you there," he greets the Daganian Minster for Enterprise and Innovation, moving out of the doorway just enough so as not to get caught in the doors – which 'Lantis promptly shuts behind him, as if afraid he'll duck back inside if she leaves them open. Damnable city. Barely a week in his head and she already knows him too well.

She smiles at him in a way that is, if not honest, is at least warm. "That would be my own fault, I fear. Much of my early training in The Brotherhood involved learning to move unseen, the better to guard our secrets from the unlearned. I have never quite been able to shake myself of the habit."

"That's… nice. I'm just gonna go ahead and…" He waves a vague hand towards the end of the hall and the transporter that waits – with open doors – for him.

"Oh, no. Please don't go."

"Yeah… Now's not a really good time to talk? Maybe tomorrow? Or maybe you should just talk to John about it. Whatever it is. I really don't have a lot to do with the running of the Confederation. I really can't help you with, well, whatever it is you want."

"You are an intelligent man, Doctor McKay. Perhaps the most astute I have ever known. I am sure that we can find a way to help each other."

"Strangely enough, I don't really need any help right now," he informs the Minister, edging unsteadily towards the transporter, "but maybe some other time."

Allina reaches out, more quickly than his alcohol-addled brain can quite process, and grabs his wrist. Her hold is solid. He cannot break it and trying only worsens the dig of her nails into his flesh. He already knows the bruise will be terrible come a reasonable hour of the morning.

"Do not go, Doctor," she begs fervently. "There is so much we can do for one another and our common cause."

"Our cause?" he asks stupidly, unable to tear his eyes from where they grip his arm. Her skin is dark from the sun, her gown just the right shade of pale green to make her rather comely features seem impressive beyond measure. There are dozens of women still at the party more attractive than she, but she is the one pulling him near and, were he not with John, perhaps that would be enough for him to go along with whatever she wants to happen next.

But he is with John. They'll be married in two months and, even if they weren't, it's hard to want to be with anyone else when Rodney already has everything he's ever wanted.

"If the Wraith could be defeated with mere weapons, they would have been overcome long ago."

"I think you're seriously overestimating your weapons," he wants to say. What comes out is, "Let go of my arm," his voice sounding faint and far away through the rush of blood in his ears.

If Allina hears, she pays it no mind; such is the ardency of her beliefs. "The Ancestors are mighty, but we are not. They only wait for the day we are strong enough to stand beside them to begin the final battle against the darkness. The Lord Iohannes has taken us down the first step towards the War of Wars, but there is a long way yet to go. Only by ensuring our children have enough strength of blood and bone, muscle and sinew, mind and morals to continue the battle will the war be won."

Rodney thinks of the university John has endowed and the classes set to begin there next week, its opening delayed only by the need to screen applicants – a task Rodney had gleefully passed off to Zelenka. He thinks about the Argosy Ronon has been training on Genia since the Second Exodus and the first graduates thereof, who'd marched in the Coronation. Both are but the latest examples of everything John's done for this galaxy.

But what he says is, "Let go of me."

"I have no wish to harm you, but you must understand, the very fate of the galaxy is at stake. I only press the matter because you are the Lord's consort. He will listen to your council."

"Let go."

At length she does, but she's still too close. His head is reeling and his stomach rolling and all he wants is to be in his own bed, but he'll settle for Alluna taking a step or two outside of his personal bubble. She's still close enough that he can smell her perfume over the lingering stench of alcohol and sick clinging to his clothes. All his drinking has left Rodney flushed, but the warmth of her body still threatens to seep through the front of his robes. Blood continues to thunder in his ears, deafening his already dimmed thoughts. If he were sober, he might have asked 'Lantis to send for John or Lorne after all. But he's far from it and says instead, "Thank you," drunkenly full of offended dignity and low on common sense.

Maybe she is as well. Maybe she only sees an opportunity to press her advantage. Either way, Allina only moves closer and places the hand that had captured his wrist on his chest, directly over his heart. "You are an exceptional man, Doctor McKay. I have heard it said that you are the smartest man in two galaxies, if not more. You must know the truth of my words. I do not expect your affection. You cannot give me that, I know. But I know that once you felt some tenderness for me, and that may be enough."

"Enough for what?" he somehow manages to ask, though his head is spinning.

Allina is a politician, the Master Handler of the Sudarian Quindosim. She'd used him and his team to find her precious potentia and taken it from them at gunpoint when she'd learned that none of them were her beloved Ancestors – or, at least, admitting to such at the time. Even now that she knows what John really is, she hasn't handed over the ZedPM, although the whole purpose of her order was to present it to her gods upon their return. She uses people, abandons them, and calls it divine will. Her latest cause célèbre has something to do with population bottlenecks and inbreeding depression and the end of days, but Rodney doesn't know what she expects him to do it at 0130 in the morning, half-drunk drunk and unable to even pretend to care.

"For you to give me a child," she says, as if it were the only obvious conclusion. Perhaps, for her, it is, but Rodney's mind quickly replays all of the interaction he's ever had with the woman, little as it is, and comes up significantly wanting. "Even a single child of your bloodline would be a great boon to this galaxy. The chance to bear that child is all I ask."

But those are only words, and for all Allina says them, Rodney can't quite parse their meaning until her hand starts sliding down his chest, towards his belt It's only then that he realizes what's happening, what she wants, and then the bile rises in his throat once more. He'd give anything to stop this, to make her back off, to make her just go away, but he's drunk and starting to panic and forming a thought much more complicated than stop just isn't happening.

Rodney thinks he's going to be sick. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. There is no earthly reason why this might be happening to him. Things like this just don't happen to people like him, no matter how drunk they might be. He's engaged. He's on Atlantis. He's got a pair of devices shoved in his head so he can talk to Atlantis. He-

-thinks he's going to be sick, if his head doesn't explode first.

And then, like magic, Allina flies backwards, away from his belt and all the things he couldn't want less, and crashes into the wall two-and-a-half yards behind. The plaster cracks under her weight. A trickle of blood follows her body to the floor.


	35. Ascensiones, Part 3.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit of chappie 3, I promise - though now in retrospect it was stupid of me to think I could get everything I wanted for c3 into 1 chapter. **shakes head** Anyway, the first part of this may seem familiar to you if you've read drabble 87, as I rescued it from the cutting room floor when inspiration hit after I posted it. Also, I'm not entirely happy with the end, but I decided that I might as well post it before I go mad. Oh, and for the few of you who guessed this was coming? Kudos.

19 March, 2007 / IXX Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

It was so easy to be brave, Before. The only thing he had to lose back then had been his life and what was that compared to the chance that Atlantis would be able to stand for a day – an hour – a minute more? She had done so much for him, though she would deny it all in all but her most petulant moments. His life was so little compared to everything she was, everything she would be. The consequences of her Fall would be beyond imagining, while his own death would have been such a little thing in the balance.

But now…

He would still die for Atlantis. He would still give up his life for any member of the Expedition, old or new, if that would insure their safety. That hasn't changed.

What has changed is the fact that he cannot die. He can never die, not until the others release him from his senseless punishment. Until then he has no choice but to carry on, watching helplessly as everyone he loves dies, again and again and again, until the only thing he knows is death and loss and pain.

And he has so much to lose now:

His city.

His worshipers.

His family.

His crown.

Rodney.

Losing Rodney terrifies him most of all. Rodney has been at the heart of every decision he was made since the moment his amator found him in the cathedra so long ago. Who he is, what he is, what he's willing to do – there is no aspect of his new life that Rodney has not had a part in. Iohannes isn't sure he wants to know what he'll become without him.

Oh, he'll survive Rodney's death. He somehow managed to survive the extinction of his race. He's sure he can do it again, if he has to. Survival is his best – and maybe only – skill. But he cannot speak as to the kind of man he'll be at the end of it. Even the mere idea of Rodney dying fills him with a white-hot anger that he doesn't care to examine too closely, for fear of what he'll find. The actuality only promises to be worse.

It's this fear that has him flickering to Rodney's side before the words medical emergency are fully spoken, without thought of the consequences.

It's this fear that has him falling to his knees beside his amator's sprawled body, hands aglow, without taking note of the scene around him.

It's this fear that turns his blood to ice when Rodney protests weakly, "No, stop," when Iohannes' hand touches his shoulder and attempts to shrug him off.

"Rodney," he entreats, removing his hand – and his healing power – with great reluctance. "It's me. It's Iohannes – it's John," he corrects hastily, not willing to trust Rodney's life to his reasoning abilities when he's four-fifths of the way to unconsciousness on the floor. "I just wanna help you, okay? Let me help you, please."

It is a minor lifetime before Rodney manages to breathe, "John?" eyelids fluttering but far from opening.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here."

"Please."

Not trusting his voice, Iohannes takes that as leave to do what he can to fix whatever it is that has Rodney all but passed out on the floor, not a hundred yards from where the party celebrating the coronation he neither wanted or required is still raging. Although he is expecting to find something catastrophic – poison, perhaps, or inflammation of some critical organ, or even an allergic reaction, – what he finds is a great deal of alcohol and a few bruises. Both of which are worrisome, yes, but neither constitute a medical emergency by any means. As relieved as Iohannes is, it doesn't make any sense.

"What happened?" Rodney asks tiredly moment later. He takes a long moment to decide that, yes, he wants to take the weight off the arm trapped beneath him and roll onto his back.

"I dunno. I was hoping you'd tell me."

"I'm not- It's all kind of a blur, really," he says, struggling to sit up. "I was, er, talking with Allina and then…" He makes a vague motion with the hand he's not using to push himself up with, which Iohannes then grabs and uses to haul Rodney to his feet.

"Allina?"

Which is, naturally, when Carson and his team of scarily competent nurses come pouring out of the vectura, half-a-dozen medical bags and a back brace between them. After the most cursory of looks, they turn their attentions to the other person in the hall, the one Iohannes has somehow managed to miss in his panic to get to Rodney, despite the blood flowing freely the back of her head. The plaster is cracked above her, dented with an impression of her body that goes almost all the way down to the superconductive lining deep inside. Yet more blood stains the wall, slowly dripping to the floor, and when the medics take her away, he sees hairline fractures in the flooring beneath the puddle that had formed underneath her.

Oh, Iohannes thinks. This isn't how it is supposed to go at all.

* * *

"I'm fine, John," Rodney lies, staring at his hands rather than watch John circle the room like a caged animal, waiting for the chance to pounce on any hapless nurse to pass through the doors.

"I found you semiconscious with a blood alcohol level of point two six."

"Yes, but you healed me. I'm fine now."

John dismisses this out of hand. "You're not fine."

"Yes I am."

"You're shaking."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"It's cold in here," he says defensively, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits.

It's true too. Rodney's never been in an examination room that's a comfortable temperature, and this one is positively freezing. That would be Carson's doing, of course. Some absurd barber-surgeon belief that lower temperatures will reduce the chances of infection a way 'Lantis, with her force fields and impossibly advanced medical equipment, can not that he's managed to talk the city into going along with, probably. "Medieval medical sophistry," he adds, and this time Rodney hears the chattering of his teeth in his words, tastes the chill of his skin on his lips.

John frowns. He pauses at the head of the examination table upon which Rodney is perched and, with a flick of his wrist, produces a heavy, impossibly soft blanket that bears remarkable resemblance to the one they'd once shared in his sister's guest room during John's brief visit to Earth so long ago. "It's eighteen degrees," he tells him, wrapping the blanket around him like an adult would do with a small child. Rodney thinks this should probably offend him, but he's too tired and cold to care right now. Maybe later.

"You're in shock."

"What?" Rodney squeaks. He knows it's a squeak, is mortified to say it same out of his own lips when he wasn't being tortured, or threatened with torture, or r-

His tongue trips over itself in attempt to avoid the rest of that thought.

"No. Of course not. What do I have to be in shock about? I mean," Rodney says more quickly still, "the IHC is just about the last place I want to be right now. It's coming up on 0300. I'd rather be in my own bed, asleep, than sitting here waiting for Carson to poke and prod me for no reason."

"Blood alcohol level of point two six," John reminds him.

"Which," he points out, "you took care of."

"Rodney," John says, framing his face with his hands and tilting it up so that Rodney has no choice but to meet his eyes.

Rodney has looked into these eyes time beyond number. He has met them across breakfast tables, sharing secret smiles. He has caught them off-world, when a glance is all he needs to know that they're about to try something stupidly reckless again and he best prepare for the worst. He has held their gaze while their bodies have been so tangled up in one another that it's impossible to tell where he stops and John begins. He knows their shape and colour and the weight of their gaze better than he knows himself, and yet-

Yet something is different about them this time. Galaxies swirl within their depths, telling the story of the birth and death of the universe. They speak of great, terrible age and loss – so much loss. They have lost everything as ten thousand years passed in darkness and silence, as the greatest civilization ever to exist fell to ruin and rumour; as the last survivors of his species choked on their own life's breath and blood.

Rodney knows this. He's known from the beginning that John's lost more than he will ever know, that he'd do anything to keep what he already does. But, like this, it's impossible to deny. As if it was possible any longer to forget that John is an Ancient, who he watched place a crown of stars on his own head while onlookers from a thousand worlds spoken in unison, "This we name you forever: Imperator. Imperator. Imperator," just fourteen hours ago; who committed genocide on his own species so that humanity might have its chance to prove itself a worthy successor to the races of the long broken Alliance; who's flesh is only a manifestation of his desire for a tangible body with all the trappings of mortality.

He resists the urge to close his eyes as John continues emphatically, "You threw a woman ten feet into a metal wall and dented the wall. Not even Ronon can do that. I don't know why that doesn't terrify you like it does me."

"I didn't throw anyone," he says, intending for it to be a forceful rejection of any and all parts he may have had in what happened to Allina, but what comes out of Rodney's mouth instead is a weak murmur at best, a thin protestation that all but confirms his actions. "I was drunk. The conversation wasn't making much sense. I couldn't figure what she wanted from me. And then-" he bites his lower lip and tries to turn away. John's hands come with him, but his eyes do not. "Then," it's easier to lie when he's not staring into those eyes, "things got a bit fuzzy and next thing I know she was across the room and I was on the floor."

"Fuzzy," John repeats impassively.

"Yes, fuzzy. As in: I don't know what happened. Maybe she threw herself into the wall."

"Allina certainly didn't throw herself into that wall."

"Maybe she did," Rodney insists, hearing his voice grow shrill. "Maybe it was a masochistic thing. Aren't religious types supposed to be all about the self-flagellation and the suffering?"

"Maybe on Terra, but not in Pegasus. Folks tend to be more of the eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die persuasion."

"Is that what you call it?" Is that supposed to excuse what that woman tried to do – what she tried to do in her god's name – in John's name? Is that supposed to make it okay? She never did more than stand too close, barely even touched, and yet it will never be okay, because who knows how many more like her are out there, just waiting for their chance to do the same? Not John, because if John were half the god people claimed he'd know already, he'd have stopped her before she even-

John's not the wrong one to blame, but it's John he's suddenly, inexplicably, stupidly angry at. His anger is accompanied by what can only be described as a twitch in his brain and-

John snatches his hands back as if burned.

After a long moment of silence, he says, "I am going to get Carson."

"He's probably still in surgery," Rodney reminds him dully, anger fading back to the deep and abiding sense of fatigue that has followed him since the hallway. He feels the start of a headache coming on too, which makes everything that much better.

"This is more important. Just-" he bites his lower lip, "Just don't go anywhere, okay?"

"I'm fine, John," he protests once more, but John still doesn't listen and flickers away a moment later. The blanket remains, as warm and solid as one can hope for.

* * *

Carson is reluctant to the point of recalcitrance to leave his patient, even after Iohannes uses a great deal of the excess energy the Coronation has given him to heal Alliana of the worst of her injuries. But eventually he does get the doctor to examine Rodney and it is exactly as Iohannes feared:

The devices Rodney placed in his brain have done more than allow him to speak with Atlantis. They have lightened the load, as it were, for the rest of his brain, allowing neurons that would otherwise have been bothered with base functions to lend themselves to higher functions. Synaptic interaction throughout his brain has skyrocketed. It's not quite at Alteran baseline, but already is well beyond normal Terran levels.

In short, Rodney is well along the path to Ascension, with every indication being that he shall be capable of doing so before long.

Iohannes has never heard worse news.


	36. Ascensiones, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rather happy with the first part of this, mildly concerned about the last, and downright in agony over the middle. Comments/opinions/thoughts/etc would help me greatly for the next bit.   
> 1) The first bit of Czech is, "You mean you will not fit, you mean." 2) the second is, "You are two of the dumbest smart people I've ever met." 3) The last is, "by god." 4) Thetis is an Oceanid, the mythological mother of Achillies and granddaughter of Tethys. 5) The training camp is on Genia, in case you've forgotten. 6) I think that's it.

21 March, 2007 / XXI Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"I do not believe you," Radek tells him, clearly exasperated, as he realigns the crystals in the drive tray for the fifth time in half as many hours. "Try now."

Rodney runs the simulation again. "Nope. It's still not working. I told you, the problem's got to be in the wiring-"

"-or in the hyperdrive itself. Yes, I know. I have been in this room entire time. I have heard everything you said."

"Yes, well, forgive me for thinking that you weren't paying attention. You give such a good impression of it that I tend to forget you actually acknowledge my genius and don't just do your own thing when you disagree with whatever it is I'm saying. Oh," he adds after a dramatic pause, snapping the fingers of his right hand, "wait."

Radek rolls his eyes. "No need to be snippy."

"Well I wouldn't have to be if you just did as I asked and went down to the hyperdrive generator and checked the connections on all the wires."

"If you think that is where the problem is, you check the connections. I will stay here and figure out the proper calibration, which will actually fix the problem."

"You're the electrical engineer."

"You are mechanical engineer. You are perfectly capable – unless the great Rodney McKay would care to admit that there is something he cannot do?"

Snorting, "Please. I just don't feel like having to crawl through all the access tubes to get there."

"Se nevejdou přístupových trubek, spíše," Radek mutters darkly, leaning over the drive dray to get at once of the harder to reach crystals.

"Hey! I know what you're saying now when you do that, you know."

"As if I could forget!"

"You're just jealous."

"Oh, yes, of course. Because there is much to be jealous of in a device that you shove into your brain that allows you to talk to Ancient city before forcing you to Ascend."

Rodney frowns. "Carson can show you the test results-"

"No," Radek says, shaking his head as he turns away from the crystals to look at Rodney with sad, tired eyes, "that I do believe. Only you would be stupid enough to invent a device that forces you to Ascend. What I do not understand is why you have not talked to the one person who can help you achieve your goal – who also happens to be your fiancé – since it happened."

Defensively, "I've been busy. We've both been busy."

"Oh, yes, because replacing the hyperdrive on Thetis with one capable of intergalactic travel is so urgent we could not do it in the first four months she sat in the hanger."

Thetis is what John chose to rename the Tria after Lorne brought her back to the Atlantis with the rest of them. As always, his reasons were his own, but for the most part John seems content to ignore the existence of the second linter, as if doing so would somehow undo all the pain its former crew had brought them.

"Well, John's been busy."

"Doing what? Questioning Evan about every incident that the Expedition has tried to start with us since they got here?"

"Yes," he lies, because he honestly has no idea what John's been up to this whole time. John knows Atlantis like the back of his hand – better even – and the city would never give up his location, even if Rodney thought to try.

"Vy dva jste ta nejhloupější chytrých lidí, co jsem kdy potkal," Radek declares in disgust, stopping just short of throwing his hands into the air. "Let me guess what has happened: you wish to Ascend, whereas the Colonel wants you to stay human. Rather than discuss the matter like two emotionally mature, intelligent, loving adults, you argued. Loudly. And now you're mutually ignoring each other so that neither of you has to apologize for what was said or, chraň bůh, admit that your feelings got hurt."

His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Nobody likes a spy."

"As if I would waste time spying on you. Many more interesting people out there."

"What do you mean more interesting? I'm plenty interesting, thank you."

"Rodney," he says plainly, plucking a handful of crystals from the drive tray and replacing them in a different order, "you and the Colonel are arguing over what kind of happily ever after you want. That is not interesting, it is nauseating."

Queuing up the hyperdrive diagnostic once more, Rodney asks, "Well, wouldn't you? If Ascending was your best way to be with Lorne forever, wouldn't you?"

"I am surprised you would. We are scientists. Life, to us, is about discovery, is it not? Discovery and wonder and awe? Newton saw apple fall, wondered if the moon fell too, and now we have understanding of gravity. Catherine Langford never gave up trying to understand the Stargate and now we are living in the Lost City of Atlantis."

"Yes, yes. What's your point?"

"My point is: Ascension gives you ultimate knowledge. And if you know everything, if there is nothing left to discover, would you still be you?"

"Of course I'd still be me. I mean, John's still John, isn't he?"

But even as he says it, Rodney knows it's not true. It's nothing drastic, nothing anyone would notice unless they're looking, but it's true all the same. They used to be on par, him and John. They love each other, yes, but they used to need each other as well – I save you, you save me. But John hasn't needed anyone to save him in a long time, and even if he did, there's nothing Rodney – so terribly, stupidly, helplessly human – could ever do that would possibly make a difference to an Ascended being.

He shakes this thought off quickly, not wanting to dwell. "And maybe Ascension isn't the end, not really. Maybe there's more to know, more to discover up in the higher planes, and we can't even guess at them because it's all too complicated for our primitive human brains to understand."

Radek frowns, removing his glasses to polish them with the trailing end of one of his sleeves. "That sounds like quite the leap of faith to me," he says, being kind enough to leave the, "and neither of us have ever been big on leaps of faith," unspoken.

* * *

"It's a nice setup you've got here," Iohannes says, focusing on keeping his eyes facing forward, on the beaten-earth aisle between columns of tents they're walking down, rather than looking about, as he would like. But looking straight ahead limits the number of people he sees and, thus, the number of salutes he has to return. His arm is already starting to protest the repeated use, which is all manner of ridiculous, but there it is.

"It needs work," Ronon tells him.

"Don't see how, unless you want to start laying foundations and stringing electrical wire."

"It's better this way. Most of them come from planets a lot less advanced than Sateda. Clean water and three meals a day are enough for them to get used to."

Iohannes frowns. He doesn't like the idea that hunger, true hunger, exists in the galaxy he supposedly controls. He thinks of all the hours that went into planning his coronation. Certainly at least one world could have been cured of hunger for that same effort. Certainly someone somewhere could have been found and engaged to teach at least one village how to farm more effectively. Or, if not, then they certainly could have vaccinated an entire planet for the most common illnesses for the same cost, or constructed a school or-

He should be able to do something. People call him a god. The power of his belief is so ardent now that he finds himself forced to loose his hold on it all, allowing it to leech into the world around him, or else risk losing his hold on it all and causing even greater destruction than he did to Asuras when he killed Elizabeta.

Elizabeta. She would have known what to do with all this power rushing through him. She would have been able to find a way to balance all the contradictory desires coursing through his veins. She would have been able to mediate things so that the great rift that's arisen between Terra and Lantea would never have happened. She would have found a way to help all the worlds in need. She would have known what to do now, when he is so lost, seeing no other way out of this mess he's made himself than to plunge onwards and hope that everything he loves somehow manages to survive.

Iohannes misses her so much it hurts.

"It's not your fault."

"What's not?" he asks, quickly, feeling like he's lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.

"Whatever you did that brought on this visit."

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"You saw me two days ago," Ronon snorts as they turn down a side path, this one leading them away from the columns of tents and towards the practice grounds. It's a bit of a walk, but Iohannes doesn't mind. The distance and the time of day limit the number of people who'll want to salute him, and he feels understandably reticent discussing this where he might be overheard.

"Yeah," he drawls, "but we didn't get a chance to hang out. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for everything you're doing here, but we're a team – you, me, Teyla and Rodney. We work best together, not scattered across the galaxy."

"You planning on a mission anytime soon?"

Regretfully, Iohannes must admit, "No." He is Imperator. His unfortunate place is on Atlantis, dealing with the worlds that are already in the Confederation, not bringing new people into it – or so he's been told by any and everyone who feels they have a say in what he gets to do. They're probably right, but he's been a solider for longer than their civilizations have existed. Making the transition from the front-line to the planning room is proving difficult.

Exceedingly difficult.

Impossibly difficult.

He wonders how Elizabeta managed it. Granted, she wasn't a soldier. She'd never been a soldier. But how had she managed to stay in that tiny glass office where everyone could watch her – judge her – and do it day in, day out, knowing that she was sending people out to risk their lives, knowing that she was sending some people to their deaths….

For all that they disagreed at times Iohannes always respected Elizabeta. But now that she's dead and her job has fallen on his shoulders, Iohannes truly understands the burden that she carried so gracefully. She may have worried too much and believed too extensively in the innate goodness of others, but she did the best she could-

-and her best is beyond compare. She could make people want to be better. All he can do is put the fear of god in them and hope that's enough to make a lasting difference – that maybe fear can somehow spark hope in a galaxy that's been without for longer than even he has been alive.

"Then my place is here."

"I thought you'd say that."

Ronon grunts in acknowledgement. "So why are you really here?"

"I-" They're well past the tents now and still quite a ways from the (mostly empty) practice fields. "I had a fight with Rodney."

"Never mind then."

"Never mind?"

"If you had a fight with McKay, it probably is your fault."

Indignant now, he asks, "How so?"

"You knew what he was like before you started sleeping together."

"And he knew what I was like," Iohannes counters. "And what d'you know about any of it? It's not like you were there."

"I know enough."

"To know that any fight Rodney and I have is somehow my fault."

Shaking his head as if Iohannes is deliberately misunderstanding him, "It is if you're running away."

"I'm not running away."

"Doesn't McKay even know you're here?"

There's a pause before Iohannes repeats, almost resignedly, "I hate you," and another, even longer, before he continues, "Rodney's Ascending."

"That sucks."

"Yes!" Iohannes says emphatically, thrilled beyond telling to have someone agree with him at last. "Exactly. But all anyone can do is talk about how wonderful it is and how isn't it just great that we can be together for eternity. Nobody has even stopped to think about what eternity means, what it does to people."

"Give 'em time."

"Time's all I have," he snorts mirthlessly, raking a hand through his hair. His fingers tangle on the circlet he's forgotten he's wearing, all silver and moonstone and diamond, and it takes supreme effort not to yank it off his head and cast it to the ground. He asked for it, he reminds himself – the burden, if not the crown – and settles for balling his hands into fists at his sides.

"Feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to get you anywhere."

"Worked for me so far."

"Sure it has."

"I'm starting to wonder why I thought talking to you would help at all."

"Beats me," Ronon says, dead serious-

-and for some reason this has Iohannes laughing, faintly amused at first but soon sending him into paroxysms of a manic, almost deranged sound that might be laughter but could easily be sobbing instead. Somehow it ends with him sitting on the grass by the side of the path, Ronon standing solidly stalwart beside him, as always, occasionally glancing about to make sure no one will see his momentary madness.

He could live a hundred thousand more lifetimes and never deserve this kind of friendship.

"I can't lose him," Iohannes admits when his voice returns to him, tired and ragged and broken, but still there

"Then help him Ascend."

"I can't destroy him either."

"Then it looks like you've got to make a choice."

* * *

Rodney isn't asleep when he hears John come in. He's just dozing really, resting his eyes while, while the keys of the four laptops he's spread out across the kitchen table clatter happily to themselves. Unlike John, telekinesis appears to be the first power he's picked up on the way to Ascension, rather than healing abilities.

He's working on a program that will increase the efficiency of Aurora and Thetis' shield capabilities on one computer. On another, he's working on a virtual prototype of a hyperspace generator that could fit into a puddle jumper. A third is typing up this truly brilliant solution to the renormalization problem that's plagued all attempts at unifying gravity with the electronuclear force for most of his professional career, or, well, would be if he didn't have to invent a new math for it. The last is jumping between half-a-dozen projects, mostly trying to avoid the fact he's come to Elizabeth's death in the biography he's trying to write for her and the all-too-late realization that his pitiful literary skills can in no way do her life – or death – justice.

A thousand ideas vie for attention in his mind. He'll never get everything done. There's just. Not. Enough. Time.

Even so, all four keyboards still when he hears the front door to the suite open and shut, signalling what can only be John's arrival.

Maybe if Rodney is really quiet, he can pretend he's actually asleep and John will leave before long. He'd thought their suite was safe because John tends to avoid familiar places when avoiding him, but evidently John's changing the rules because here he is and, yes, there's the sound of the kitchen door opening and shutting too.

Rodney keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't want to have this fight again, and he doesn't know what else he can do. He never asked to Ascend, but now that he's been given the chance, he's not going to give up the opportunity. Until John gets that through his floppy-haired head, they've nothing to talk about.

Silences reigns for a moment that stretches into minutes that stretches into whole radians of the clock face. It tests Rodney's resolve to keep his eyes closed, to not get into the fight he knows John wants, to take the high road for once in his life-

-but then John breaks the silence, and it's not with some indolent remark designed to bait Rodney into a fight. It's not even something that he knows it will goad him into angry sex. It's just a quite, almost tentative, "'Lantis told me you'd be here."

Rodney hates this broken, lost tone. He's heard it far too often from John of late, as if the sheer weight of his responsibilities threatens to paralyze him – or, rather, not paralyze him, but force him make decisions he doesn't agree with, to make choices that should never be made. John will make them regardless, Rodney knows, but he cares too much to make them easily.

"I don't want to fight," he says, sounding just as tired.

"Fighting would be easier," John sighs.

The scrape of a chair being pulled out that follows this admission has Rodney opening his eyes. But to his surprise, John's not looking at him. Siting across from him, yes, but staring at the computers in front of them as if they held some secret that could undo the past.

"D'you really want to go through with this?" John continues, gesturing at the laptops. "You could stay like this, a highly-evolved human, if you wanted. You'd get to keep all the best parts of humanity and Ascension. You'd probably even live another decade or two."

"But not forever."

"Forever is overrated."

"You've got what? Thirty thousand years left on your parole?"

"Thirty thousand, seven hundred sixteen years, fifty-three days, nine hours and twenty minutes. Give or take a couple seconds."

It's not a flippant remark. It doesn't even try to be. It's just heavy, worn, old. It has Rodney wondering against his will if this is what people sound like before they try to kill themselves, like it would be a blessing just to end it all.

"And," Rodney continues, proceeding as if John hadn't spoken, as if his words aren't breaking his heart, "You're an idiot if you think I'll let you go through that alone again."

John sucks in a breath at his words.

Rodney doesn't know what to make of that.

"Alright," he breathes. "I'll help you."

"What?"

"I'll help you Ascend."


	37. Ascensiones, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have finally left the mire that was March 2007 for April, and are very close to the end of the season.  
> On that note, the first section I wrote in like one sitting a week ago, and I've been slaving on the second half for the last week. I'm not even sure I like it any more, or if it makes sense, or if I'm overreaching my minor writing abilities. But thoughts, comments, would be appreciated, for my own sake of mind if nothing else.  
> 1) This is about three weeks since part 4, almost a month since Rodney installed the first device and four months since the first. 2) Athanasia Aquilidea is the older sister of Beatrix Aquilidea Nebriae Tribunus, Janus' mother in this series. It's not really important, but there was no real place to point this out in the fic and mostly results because it's hard to think up ancient-sounding last names en masse.

7 April, 2007 / XXXVII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"Can you stop pacing, please? I think my head is about to explode."

"Your head's not going to explode. You're nowhere near close enough to Ascending for that to happen."

"How can you be sure?"

"'Cause."

"Oh, yes, perfect. Let's trust my continued existence to a butchered conjunction, why don't we?"

Iohannes rolls his eyes and tries his very best to keep his own headache from building. "First of all, I'm pretty sure the linguists would call it truncation, not butchering."

"Yes," Rodney interrupts from the darkest corner, where he's currently sitting with his legs pulled into his chest, arms folded across his needs, head resting on his forearms. His voice is muffled and tinged with pain, and Iohannes hates hearing him this way, but migraines are decidedly a head problem, and he's nowhere near confident enough in his healing abilities to try his hand at fixing those. This is their only choice. "Because that is the most important issue at hand."

"Good grammar is always important."

"Says the man who truncates half the words he uses."

"'Lantis chose my accent and dialect so I would blend in, not be singled out for my speech patterns," he shrugs, continuing to circle the room.

"What do you sound like without it?"

"I dunno. Normal, I guess."

"Normal," Rodney repeats dully.

"Normal for a Lantean, anyway. I could get 'Lantis to turn off my translation matrix for a bit if you really want. I wouldn't be able to understand anything you said in English, but…"

"Don't, please," Rodney says plaintively. "With my luck, you'll sound English or something, and I don't think I can handle that right this second."

Iohannes frowns. He's spent the better part of three years around Terrans, but there are times when he thinks he'll never be able to understand them. Not entirely. "Maybe when you're feeling better."

"I'm never going to feel better. I'm going to die like this-"

"Don't say that," he interrupts, far more sharply than intended. Then, more steadily, "You are going to Ascend long before you have to worry about dying."

"But it's still a possibility."

"Everything's a possibility. Some things are just more likely than others."

"That's not very reassuring."

"Yeah, well, y'know me, Rodney. I'm not really good at reassuring."

Rodney snorts as if this was the most obvious statement in the universe and then mumbles something untellable to the city. He thinks if she could, Atlantis would lower the lights still further, but it's pitch black in the examination room already. There is nothing more she can do to help and it shows in the worried note of her songs and the way she keeps shushing Rory when her music grows too loud.

"Why would anyone willingly do this to themselves?" he complains a little while later, presumably when his headache has died down somewhat.

"Ascend?" Iohannes asks, giving up his pacing and settling on the edge of the bio bed. "Well, most people don't go about speeding up their evolution to get there, which I imagine makes it rather more attractive."

"Gee, thanks."

"Anytime, buddy," he grins. "But," more soberly, "seriously, just relax:

"I know it hurts. I know it feels like the pain is all there is. I know it seems like there's no end in sight, that you will never make it through the day, let alone the next minute. I know how much easier it would be to stop fighting, to just give up and let it wash over you like the tide."

"Still not helping."

"But you're stronger than the pain. I know you are. I've seen you do the impossible too many times to let you give up now. The pain does not control you-"

"-I control the pain. All I have to do is release my burdens and then my spirit will be free and my body will matter not. I know John. I know. We've been doing this for weeks, but it's not helping. I- I can't think with my head pounding like this. Just forget it. This was never gonna work anyway-"

"Don't think that way!"

"I know, I know. I don't have much time left. Can you…?" he waves a hand pitifully in the direction of the counter, upon which is a syringe filled with one of the few drug cocktails that can still take an edge off his migraines.

Iohannes slides off the bio bed with a sigh and tries not to feel disappointed as he reaches for the syringe. It's not Rodney's fault, he's a terrible teacher, especially when it comes to Ascension, and now Rodney's going to die before his physiology stabilizes enough for him to pick up the mental component of Ascension, because of course the devices Rodney's shoved into his brain work too well, even in this, and he's going to lose him just like he's lost everyone else.

He should hold out, he knows, and make Rodney try harder. They'll never get anywhere if Rodney can't even begin to take control of his mental state, but Iohannes can't stand seeing Rodney in pain. "Yeah," he whispers, kneeling in front of his sponsus. "Okay. Give me your arm."

Rodney does and, thankfully, is out of it before too much longer – not asleep or even unconscious, but in some sort of drug-induced hazed beyond the realm of hurt and suffering. Iohannes leaves him sitting in the corner and slips out of room as quietly as the door's mechanisms allow.

The world is too bright outside of the examination room, so bright he almost misses Carson waiting for him in the hallway. "How is he?"

"Worse," he's forced to admit, avoiding the doctor's eyes. He picks at the laces of his vambraces instead. "His brain is rewiring itself faster than he can adapt to the changes. I don't know if he'll stabilize before he reaches the point where it's either Ascension or death."

"His synaptic activity was eighty-three percent last night," Carson reminds him unnecessarily, sympathetically, tiredly.

"It's probably closer to ninety now."

"And you said he needs to reach ninety-six to Ascend?"

"Ninety-six will kill him."

"You cannae know that."

But he does. His people devoted their entire lives to Ascension. Even when all the odds were stacked in their favour, few achieved it. It was foolish to imagine that he could teach Rodney to Ascend, but even so that had been before the Devices had shown their true nature. If they had merely lightened the load for the rest of Rodney's brain, perhaps they would not be in this position, but the Devices have stimulated cell growth and division at a rate that has proved untenable. Before long, they'll have surpassed the potential of the human mind. Who knows what will happen then? It is too much to hope that Rodney will stabilize and remain a highly evolved human until he masters the spiritual components of Ascension. No, more likely the Devices will continue as before and what was once advantageous will become cancerous. Once that ninety-six percent is reached, Rodney is not likely to last the night.

If he even gets that far.

Iohannes runs a hand across his face, an unwanted realization dawning. "He's not going to be able to do this himself."

He follows the trail of a long, carmine sleeve as it rises from the floor to hoover just off the ground as Carson places a hand on his shoulder. He still can't bring himself to meet his friend's eyes, but Iohannes can easily imagine the concern that must be there. "You've done everything you can, lad. You may be Ascended, but you're nae actually a god. There's nothing more anyone can do. Sometimes," he swallows, his voice growing taut, "people just die."

"I can still save him." It would mean doing the unthinkable, but he's done worse for less. He might not be a god. He might not be able to save starving worlds or change the course of the stars, but Iohannes can do this for him.

"John, what-?"

"I- I'll be back," he says quickly, shaking off Carson's hand. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you?" And before he can answer, Iohannes allows himself to slip free of his false flesh and slide by means beyond mortal understanding into the higher planes, where space has seven dimensions and the last fifty-three members of his species wait, the only people in the universe that can help.

* * *

Concursus Maximus, The Higher Planes

He flickers into existence on a broken skyway, the sound of his boots measuring out careful steps echoing along fallen columns and shattered tiles before his body has quite materialized on this plane. Holes in the ceiling reveal a night sky aglow with the light of hundred thousand galaxies, all shining faintly red or blue or pale, milky white. Gaps in the floor give glimpses into a desolation so complete that even Iohannes, who has known darkness and silence and marked their passing with scars upon his soul, has not seen its like.

Iohannes moves forward with a purpose, knowing that time moves strangely between planes.

As he does, broken columns piece themselves back together and leap onto their plinths ahead of him. Flagstones spring into existence in the lacunas in his path before he can so much as risk falling into the empty chasm below, utterly indistinguishable from their fellows when he strides across them. Overhead, the vaulting ceiling knits itself together, the expansive view of stars being replaced by bold swaths of colour that remind him achingly of Atlantis' own dreams for interior renovation.

The skyway eventually empties out at the top of an outdoor amphitheatre. Seating for billions has been carved into the sides of a great gorge, the stones of which have been stained umber and ochre by time. The steps are broken, the stairs crumbled, and slivers of oblivion have worked their way between slabs like particularly terrifying and persistent grass, but it's still one of the most magnificent things ever built, even if it is less a construction than an interface willed into being by those than inhabit this space.

He takes the steps three at a time, (here too the stone seems to grow more solid underfoot, as if Iohannes' very presence can restore them to their former glory, but he ignores this for his own sake of mind), but still it seems to take too long to reach the bottom of the arena, where he can see the others clustered, all fifty-three of them, the last survivors of the greatest race the universe has ever known.

"You know who I am," he announces out when he's – finally – close enough, stopping on the third to last riser, so that they all have to turn around to look at him, those seated on the lower two levels and the handful standing on the arena floor. "You know what you did to me. You know what you took from me a year ago in this very place. You know why I'm here."

"Contrary to popular belief, Icarus, the universe does not revolve around you," says Josua Lal Tribunus from the arena floor, standing rigid between his mother and another woman who he cannot identify, all suggestions of friendship long fled with his outlandish belief that Iohannes has given into Haeresis. "Why are you here?"

"Rodney is dying."

"Who?" asks one of the men in the stands – a wizened man with dark, leathery skin and a neatly trimmed beard, who he remembers without ever once knowing is called Nicomedes Lahir Peritus, who Ascended from Tarquinus not long before her Fall.

He counts to decem, reminding himself that he's not going to get anywhere with the others if he tries to shoot one of them. Somehow, Iohannes manages to keep his hands on his hips and his voice level as he says, "Meredith Rodney McKay, formerly of Terra. Also known as Moreducus Ignius Pastor, the current rector of Atlantis, and the man I plan on marrying next month."

"And why is this a concern of ours?" inquires the young woman standing beside Josua and Ganos. Her feet are bare and her dress is hardly more than a span of white fabric worn for modesty's sake, covering no more and no less than Alteran custom calls for. Iohannes' memories provide the name Athanasia Aquilidea for her. (She is also one of the youngest people in Alteran history to Ascend, having been only fifteen at the time.) "Death is a natural part of life, no different than thirst or hunger. Those that die re-join the universe and will be reborn in the grass and the earth and the stars."

Through clenched teeth, "I'm rather attached to these atoms just where they are."

Athanasia tilts her head to the side, a confused little bird confronted by something she, at fifteen, never had the chance to know or even desire.

Dryly, Josua translates this into something she can understand, telling her, "Icarus fancies himself in love."

"I fail to see how that changes anything," she says firmly. "Life is life. Death is death. Love does not change either."

Iohannes should hate her for saying this, but it's hard. He can't see the millennia-old Ascended being, only the fifteen-year-old girl she was when she Ascended (a girl he never knew and doesn't remember now). He can only hate the society that told them both it is wrong to love, that it is wrong to care, that it is wrong to feel at all. She did everything society ever asked for her by Ascending, but at the cost of her own life, so that how she cannot comprehend it's very purpose: to love whoever is around to be loved.

"I need you to save him."

"Salvation is the work of gods," says Creon Syagrius Valens Praetor (the military commander of Tirianus during the Minor Diaspora and for a short time after, his memory informs him), robes billowing around him as he rises from his seat on the lowest level, "of which we are not."

"Most of us, at least," Josua adds, sotto voce, but his voice carries and Iohannes makes out his words easily.

"I am not a god," Iohannes says firmly, struggling to hold his ground, "and I make no claims to be. I never wanted to be like this. I never would have Ascended if you lot hadn't dragged me into this plane kicking and screaming. It's within my rights to ask for anything after that, punishment or not. All I'm asking is for you to Ascend Rodney. Please. He will die if you don't."

"If he deserves to be here, he should be able to get here on his own," Athanasia says, head tilting the other way now.

"You know I would never be asking you if there was any other way. He's going to die before he comes close to Ascending."

Nicomedes speaks up then, saying, "I have studied the one you wish us to save," as if he'd not been pretending to be unaware of Rodney's existence just moments before. "He is vainglorious and cruel, craven with his own life and reckless with others'. Even under ideal circumstances, he would never be capable of Ascension."

Rarely has Iohannes wanted to shoot someone so desperately for sheer stupidity alone. "You're wrong," Iohannes tells him instead, a muscle in his jaw twitching from the rapidly failing effort to keep calm. Rodney needs him calm. "He is the smartest, bravest man in the universe. Braver than you lot, certainly. Sure, he makes mistakes, but at least he acts. At least he does something, even when he's scared, even when he thinks it will mean nothing but certain death for himself and everyone involved. How many of you would do half as much if placed in his situation?"

"He has spent his life building weapons," Valens inserts.

"You spent your life using them," Iohannes counters just as quickly. "And anyway, I thought it was intentions that mattered, not deeds, and you'll not find a man with better."

"Perhaps," Josua admits. "But he would never be able to keep himself from intervening in the lower planes. Then there would be two of you."

"There wouldn't be one of me, if you hadn't Ascended me."

"You let yourself be worshiped," Athanasia reminds him casually, easily, as if he'd asked the day of the week and not questioned their whole basis for refusing to save Rodney's life. "You had to be punished."

He can no longer even pretend to be calm, the anger settling into his veins with icy bitterness as his words grow sharper, colder, "Yeah? And how's that working out for you? Do you have any idea what good I've done for Pegasus by interfering since you Ascended me? Do you have any idea how many lives I've saved? How many people I've helped? I've more power at my command than all of you put together and I don't use to hurt people because I know I'm not a god.

"And d'you know how I remember that?" he asks bitingly and continues without so much as pretending to wait for an answer, "Because of that man whose life you're so casually dismissing."

"Then you've not learned your lesson-" Valens begins, but Iohannes is having none of that and, the very embodiment of fury, shouts back-

"Because I don't want to learn it! There are people suffering out there and nothing you can do to me will convince me just to let them suffer when I can do something about it."

"You alone must be responsible for your condition. Blame and benefit must fall to you alone."

Athanasia says this with implacable calm. The fifty-two souls between him and her look on just as serenely, as if he's not screaming at them, demanding to be heard. And if anything this makes Iohannes even angrier, because he can deal with anger. He can deal with opposition. But this steely-eyed conviction in the surety of their beliefs is impossible for him to counter. Nothing he says will ever make a difference. Nothing he can do will ever change their minds.

But he still has to try, because Rodney is still dying on the lower planes, and he can barely remember what his life was like before Rodney found him, except to know that he doesn't want to become that person again, that he can't go back to moving through the motions now that he knows how wonderful life can be.

"He's a good man," he tries, both plea and acrimony.

"There are many good men," she says, still calm, still indifferent. "Who are we to decide which to help?"

And its then that he realizes that all his efforts are futile. The others will never help him. They'll just continue to sit here in their ivory tower and judge and refuse to do anything, too afraid of their own shadows to take a chance and try to do some good in this universe.

He should have known – he should have suspected – but he had hoped, and hope was all he had left after every other avenue had been excluded.

"You're going to regret this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you will regret the moment you had the chance to help me and chose instead to stand by and do nothing. Because I won't forget this and can't guarantee how forgiving I'll be after Rodney's gone."

"You do not frighten us, Icarus. Many like you have come before, but none now remain."

I think I'm the only thing that frightens you, he does not say. Instead he stalks away, back up the stairs and towards the skyway from which he arrived.

There are only fifty-three of them now, and with the faith of a quarter of a galaxy at his disposal, his power easily outstrips theirs. Only their knowledge keeps them superior (indomitable, invincible, impossible to break free from) and theirs is infinite knowledge. It's not even just knowledge or information – it is understanding on a level that he will never-

Their knowledge is infinite and beyond the realm of mortals. But Iohannes isn't a mortal anymore and hasn't been for a long time. Their knowledge can be his as well, if he lets it. If he stops pretending to be mortal (because some doors cannot be unopened, because some choices can't be undone).

He'd be able to save Rodney.


	38. Ascensiones, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard, painful even, and required the listening to of some of the most depressing songs in existence as well as the reading of Marvel: Civil War "The Confession" and "Casualties of War" many times to get in the right mood. I should be sorry for that, but am not, and give each and every one of you a box of tissues before I go further. (Merry Xmas).  
> 1) Approx. 10 hours has passed from the last chapter. 2) The languages Rodney uses are, in order: French, Russian, Latin/Ancient, French. I chose them because it is my head!canon Rodney grew up in Quebec and thus knows French fairly well, and that he obviously knows Russian and Latin from various work related things. All are translated in-context. I think. 3) I know, Chaya was never mentioned properly in-story, but she *did* appear in "Somniati". Kind of. And I never said that episode didn't happen. I just didn't want to have to deal with it back then. 4) Large parts of this were written seconds before I went to bed, after I'd given up for the day, then edited the next day for clarity. Lather rinse repeat. 5) I'm not entirely happy with the very end but... well, you'll see. Hopefully it makes sense/is readable/is something, at least.

8 April, 2007 / XXXVIII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"He's not going to be back in time."

Carson fiddles ineffectively with one of the dials on the medical equipment he insists on keeping Rodney hooked up to, despite the fact that everyone in the city acknowledges they're less than useless at this point.

It's no secret that he's going to die. The only question that remains is when. To everyone's surprise – particularly his own – he made it through the night. But Rodney knows he won't make through the next one. He's already begun to lose sensation in his limbs, only to have it return infinitely stronger, so that even the weight of the blanket they draped over his body at some point seems impossibly heavy and its soft fleece so rough that it's all he can do not to cry out in agony. But the torture is always only momentary, lasting a minute or less (even if it seems to be an eternity at the time), and they're getting less frequent all the time.

This is not a good sign.

It is, however, one that Rodney's been able to hide. He's been less lucky with the others – a touch on his shoulder he could not feel, the uncoordinated movement of his hands, and the slow, creeping understanding that the words he intends to say are not those that come out: a polyglot roulette that favours English for the moment, but will sidestep into others without warning.

His question must have been entirely in English, though, for Carson answers, "He'll be back soon. I know it."

"You don't even know where he went."

Carson moves to respond – Rodney has little doubt that it is something heartfelt and worryingly saccharine – but he cuts his friend off before he can even begin. "It doesn't matter. He won't be back in time and… and there's something I need to ask you."

"Alright."

"I-" He swallows. He never thought this would be easy, but this is harder than he ever would have imagined. "I think in the grand scheme of things, we're, we're good, aren't we?"

"Of course, Rodney."

He breathes out, relieved. "That's- That's good. Je connais-" No, that's not right. "I know I've not always been the best friend to you. I've taken advantage of your friendship and your kindness. I know what I'm like on the best of days, but you've stuck by me through the worst and nothing I can say or do now can ever make up for all the things I've said and done to you in the past. I just hope you can forgive me, and…"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Yes! Yes, there is! I've been terrible to you! To you and John and Radek and all the other people who for some reason call me their friend! I'm petty and jealous and self-absorbed-"

"You are a good person," Carson interrupts loudly, boldly, brashly, as if the very fate of the universe depends on his friend's defence of him. "You're nae perfect, but nobody is and nobody's asking you to be. My god, Rodney, sometimes you can be the best friend a guy could ask for and, yes, there are times when you can also be the worst, but the good far outweighs the bad. Hell, sometimes I think you're the best of everything humanity has to offer – the good and the bad – and it just destroys me to think that this is how you're going to die. All you did was try to help yourself and maybe make the universe a better place while you were at it, and maybe you went about it in the wrong way, but, God, Rodney, that doesnae mean you deserve this."

"I think you have me confused with someone else, anyone else – John maybe, but not me. Я не-," but that's wrong too and Rodney has to swallow and really focus to get the right words to come out. "I don't know where you got the idea that I'm, that I'm someone worthwhile. You know that better than most.

"So, yeah, maybe I've done a couple of brilliant things, but that's just been luck of the draw. I've," his voice shakes as he struggles to admit the truth, but he's had more than enough time over the past few weeks to meditate on his existence. If he's honest, he's known the truth all along, and done everything in his power to keep others from seeing it as well. Apparently he's done better than he thought, if he can have Carson believing this of him, "fucked up more than I've saved the day. I- I destroyed a solar system, for god's sake."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Carson says sagely, settling into the chair by Rodney's bedside. "It's what makes us human. And, for the record, you are a good man, one I'm proud to call my friend."

"I don't know why."

"You know why."

Rodney really doesn't, but it's getting harder to focus now. His limbs feel so heavy and the room grows dark even as the beeping of the heart monitor and his own breath seem to sing out in ever-sharper relief. "I think," he says quietly, "that you should get the others. If they want to be here."

"Oh, Rodney," the doctor says, voice thin and watery now, lacking almost all of its former conviction.

"Hey, stop that. There will be no crying at my deathbed, understand? I won't have it. If I can make it through this with dry eyes, you can to. So suck it up, and-"

-and it feels like he's on fire, ever inch of him ablaze, and he knows that it's just his mind playing tricks on him because cells are dividing faster than his nerves can handle and sometimes wires get crossed, that he's not actually burning, but god it feels real and he can't help the pained cry that escapes his lips during the long moment it takes for the sensation to pass.

"O, Deus. Ô, Dieu. Oh, God. I can't believe I'm gonna die." Rodney's known it for days now, suspected it for weeks, but he's not understood it until now. Not properly. In another hour or another minute or another second he will be dead (because he certainly doesn't even have another day in him, and even an hour might be being generous with things).

Dead, as in gone.

Dead, as in no more.

Dead, as in quietly disappearing, no forwarding address. Here one minute and gone the next, conspicuous only in his absence, until nothing is left of his life but the raw hole where he should be. But even that hole will be forgotten, the seemingly boundless chasm being papered over by time and other people, until there's – well, not not a hole, but something as close to normal as anyone who's ever suffered loss can have.

And there will be other people. Radek will probably take his place as rector. Evan will probably fill the void of John's caretaker and best friend. Who will take his place as amator, almost coniunx, Rodney has no wish to know. Maybe the haven't even been born yet (it's possible. There were five hundred odd generations and extenuating circumstances between him and Nicolaa de Luera Pastor. It could happen again). But there will be someone else. Eventually. Life goes on.

He wonders who will be the smartest person in two galaxies after he dies.

More than that, he tries to remember the last time he told John he loves him. It certainly can't have been recently enough. He should have done that more often. He should have spent less time working, more time with John, because John is the only good thing he's done with his life, and he's glad to have been a part of his – to have saved him, to have even given him a few paltry moments of happiness in a life so otherwise devoid of any.

John should be here. He should be here because Rodney is dying and he doesn't want his last words to be a confirmation of the fact. He wants them to be, "I love you. I love you. I love you," said enough times that John, for the rest of his damnable immortality, will never forget that he was loved the way Rodney has loved him.

But John isn't here and it's not like his voice is working properly, so what would be the point? He doesn't want John's last memory of him to be like this. He wants John to remember him as, as whatever the hell is it was that drew him to him in the first place and-

God, he can't breathe. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe? That's one of the first things that the devices stripped from him – it's in 'Lantis' control now, not his, just like his heartbeat and his perspiration and the fuck-ton of other autonomic functions his brain can't be bothered to deal with while he's uplinked to the city. He tries to ask 'Lantis, to bet her to turn his lungs back on, but he can't make her hear him, or maybe he can't hear her and-

He always thought people where making up that bit about the white light, that, if anything, it was an evolutionary throwback to the time when eyes were little more than sensors for detecting the presence or absence of light, that it was the last struggle of a mind trying in vain to do its duty even as its forced to abandon its more complex functionalities. But, no, there it is: cold and severe, like sunlight reflected off the snow on the flight into McMurdo – bright and harsh and unforgiving – unearthly, a reminder that, for all they are exploring the stars, there is still so much about their own planet they don't know yet. Only it's not their planet now, they gave up Earth for Lantea because Earth had betrayed itself at some point, or, at least, their leaders had. Their fight with the goa'uld was just, their war with the Ori justified, but their conflict with the Lucian Alliance is just stupid, all about control and hegemony and not a lick about exploration or even defence.

He'd hated Antarctica. He hated its bitterness and its brutality and ruthlessness, but Rodney loves this light, even if it's going to take him from this world and everything he loves.

It is Death and he does not fight it. He greets it with open arms and lets himself go.

* * *

The Higher Planes

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon Rodney, wake up. C'mon, please, Rodney, just wake up for me. Do that for me, will you? Please, just wake up."

Rodney doesn't stir.

Rodney doesn't do anything. There is a narrow, low shelf at the end of the skyway and his body lies upon it, as cold and still as a funeral effigy, but that is all. There's no movement, no breath, not even the suggestion of a heartbeat beneath his skin – but he cannot be dead. Dead men cannot Ascend.

He doesn't know what he did wrong. Maybe he should have waited for the knowledge to sink in a little better before he attempted to use it, but he didn't have any time. Rodney was dying. He had to do something.

So Iohannes Ascended him, just as the others had Ascended him nearly a year ago, albeit (presumably) not quite so against his will.

Maybe he was too late. Maybe that is why Rodney doesn't stir. Yes, the body is here – or the energy that had once made the body up, anyway; this is the higher planes – but maybe the spark is gone, the spirit fled. Maybe everything that made Rodney Rodney is gone now, and all that remains is a comatose ball of energy that will soon dissipate without a consciousness to hold it together.

Maybe he's given everything up for nothing – sacrificed it all for nothing – doomed himself to an eternity burdened by knowledge he cannot un-know for nothing.

No, not for nothing.

He had to try.

He has to try.

Iohannes, already kneeling beside his amator, leans forward until their foreheads touch – a cold, lifeless mockery of all the touches that have come before, filled with so much love and warmth that he wants to flinch back away from this one now, to better preserve the others in his memories. Then, with all the strength and all the determination and all the stubbornness within him, he wills Rodney to live.

Iohannes doesn't know how long he stays like this, only that his power is already sorely drained from Ascending his amator in the first place and that, when he finally pulls away, Rodney remains as cold and lifeless as he was before.

A terrible sob escapes him unbidden.

It wasn't supposed to end this way, he thinks.

Another terrible sound escapes his lips and Iohannes can't quite believe they're coming from him – he's never made sounds like before this in his life – has never had reason to make a sound like before – but he can't bring himself to care either. Let the others hear what their indifference has done. Let the entire universe hear. They should know what type of people they consider to be gods. They should know those people – those people who so many considered to be good and just and kind – just stood back and watched while the best man in the universe died for no reason other than they couldn't be bothered to prevent it.

Iohannes couldn't prevent it.

He couldn't prevent it, just like he can't prevent the tears now. He doesn't even try to. Perhaps he should. Perhaps gods aren't supposed to feel sorrow, and maybe that has been the problem all along: for all his people tried not to be gods, the more godlike – the more inhuman – they became in the process. They stopped feeling and caring and loving and in so doing stopped living as well. They became living statues, as immovable as marble and as inflexible as the paths of the stars.

They were wrong. Iohannes knows that. He's known that for longer than he can remember. But, right now, crying with his face buried in Rodney's chest, hand clutching ineffectively at his shirt, he'd give anything for that coldness, for that distance, if only it would make it stop hurting so much.

Footsteps echo down the skyway towards him, and when he lifts his head he sees her standing in front of him.

"I see I am too late," she says wryly, as if the most amusing thing ever to happen to her is to have found Iohannes in tears over his dead amator.

The only reason Iohannes doesn't empty a clip into her where she stands is because he's fairly certain it wouldn't do any good here in the higher planes. "Why are you here, Chaya?" he asks, glaring at the schismatica with eyes that feel heavy and leaden and unwilling to leave Rodney, even for one second.

"I came to help. It took me some time to get away," she says delicately.

Everything about her seems more delicate than he remembers from his brief visit to Proculus. Her steps are more cautious. Her words are more deft. Even her voice seems better able to incite warm, fuzzy feelings in whoever might be listening than it used to. And while she's wearing something that's more sheer than not, with arabesque lace covering the parts of her that want covering, and it should be provocative or, at the very lest, suggestive, the outfit somehow comes across as fragile and soft and rare instead.

It's all very well done, if Iohannes was in to that kind of thing.

"If you really wanted to help, you should have said something back there," he gestures back down the skyway with the hand that isn't still fisted in Rodney's shirt, towards the others and the amphitheatre where they'd left them, "where it might have done some good. I want nothing to do with secret pacts and backroom deals or whatever the hell else it is you have in mind."

"I must be careful. The others have only recently welcomed me back into their fold. There are many who still distrust me for my perceived crimes."

"I didn't think you wanted to come back."

"Wouldn't you, if they offered? After being so alone for so long, wouldn't you welcome the chance to return?"

"They have, and I haven't."

"Then we are less alike than I would have believed, Icarus."

"We are nothing alike," he spits, hand clenching at Rodney's shirt like a man clinging to the last lifeline in a storm, which it is, because otherwise Iohannes will start shooting regardless of the effect it will actually have and not stop until the pain goes away. "You are a schismatica. I am not."

"I was forced to protect my world for ten thousand years, alone, because I loved too much. Perhaps my love was of a different nature than yours, but the others named it the same crime," Chaya says so beautifully earnestly. But they're only that – beautiful words, "and handed down the same punishment. Yours is only longer because they wanted to punish you – unjustly – for those crimes they deemed your father and your grandfather to have committed as well."

"I helped people," he finds himself shouting. "I did all I could to help as many as I could. You, you coddled that world. You treated it and it's people like children. What will they do now that their Athar is gone?"

"They will survive."

"Or they won't. It's a great, big, terrible universe out there, and unless we help each other out where and when we can, nothing good will ever come out of anything we do."

"The universe isn't the cold, dark place you believe it to be-"

"The universe is nothing but pain and suffering and loss and death. I don't know why every species in the universe understands that but ours. Maybe because we're the ones who've caused all the pain... I don't know.

"All I do know is that those people worshiped you and you abandoned them. You can't just- You are responsible for what you create. Maybe Proculus existed before you got involved and maybe you didn't mean for them to start worshiping you, but you created that society and so you're responsible for it and you have to know they're in no way equipped to handle a life where Athar isn't healing their every hurt, let alone the next time the Wraith decide to visit that world."

"Children have to grow up some time."

Shaking his head violently, "That's not how this works, Chaya."

"Then teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me," she says again with painful earnestness. "After Josua visited you, he shared your conversation and your offer with us, declaring it proof that you had embraced the Haeresis, as did the first of your name. The others named him a fool for so much as thinking you could still be swayed, but I knew it for what it was: an honest hope and an honest offer. I should have come to you sooner, but I was afraid. Nothing can excuse that, I know, but I wish to join you all the same."

Iohannes shakes his head sharply, still clinging to Rodney's shirtfront. "It's too late for that. That offer is off the table. You had your chance."

"Don't judge us all by Josua and his mother's impossible standards."

"I'm not," he tells her. His voice is sharp, but in control. He doesn't know how he can be in control of anything with Rodney dead, but somehow he's in command of this. "I know what you are. Maybe there's hope for redemption in you yet, but I don't want any part of it. I want you as far away from me as possible or I swear I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"You can't just offer to help than take it away."

"Watch me."

"The Descendants aren't the only ones who need guidance," Chaya implores him, desperate and messy and not the least bit delicate anymore. "Icarus, I understand that I've made mistakes – horrible mistakes which have hurt the very people I tried to protect – but all I've ever wanted to do was help. I thought- I thought that if I could save just one blue world, all my suffering would be worth it. I thought that anything would be worth it, if I could just save them, even if it made me complacent to so many other deaths.

"But I'm tired of being complacent. I'm tired of watching innocents die and knowing that I could have prevented their deaths if I only tried. I'm tired of being afraid that every action I take will get me sent back into exile or worse. I don't want to be afraid anymore and I hope, with your guidance, perhaps we can create something wonderful together. Something worthy of this universe of wonders we have been born into."

"Get out of my sight," Iohannes spits.

"You can't just-" she begins, reckless in her desperation, and takes a step forward.

Iohannes flings out a hand to stop her. His mind is reeling from the unbounded knowledge still filtering into his mind now that he's lowered the floodgates, each new insight grappling with the others for dominance within his mind. None of it can overcome the ragged, raw awareness of all the spaces Rodney used to inhabit, and all he knows is he wants Chaya to hurt as much as he hurts.

What happens next he can never explain. All he can be certain of is that a beam of white light, harsh and cold, leaves his hand and hits Chaya square in the chest. Although this should do nothing to her, though nothing should be able to harm an Ascended being, a pale layer of hoarfrost covers her body in seconds, radiating outwards from the place where the energy beam touched her. That hoarfrost quickly turns into proper ice and it is all too clear from the horrific sounds she makes before she can make sounds no more that the schismatica is freezing from the inside out. Soon she is only a perfect, cold statue of all she once was, unmoving and immovable – an Alteran-shaped nuclear explosion frozen mid-detonation and nothing more.

Iohannes has no explanation for it. It is all he can do to say that it happened and that, preposterously, he was the cause of it.

Somewhat shocked, he lets his hand drop back to his side. But this too is a mistake because the moment he does, the statue explodes into a thousand tiny shards of light and energy that fall with a slight slivery tinkle to the flagstones below.

"How-?" he manages before the impossible happens again and his train of thought is broken by the sharp intake of breath from the corpse whose shirt he's still clenching.

Chaya is dead; Rodney is alive.


	39. Ascensiones, Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing I can say that will give nothing away. All I will say is, like the Cylons, I have a plan. And have had one since the beginning.

{?} – The Higher Planes

"You were dead," John says. There's a note of panic to his voice that Rodney's never heard before, the kind of thing that's usually present in his own but never in John's – John is rock steady, John is certain; John never, ever has doubts. Not about anything as rational as life and death, anyway.

"Huh?" he somehow manages, surprised at the clarity of his own voice. His last clear memory is of pain – of pain so utter and complete there can be no escape or relief. It should follow that it should hurt now. His voice should abrade his bruised throat. His limbs should be tender and leaden. His eyes should refuse to cooperate when he tries to force them open and should flinch from the light when they do. But it doesn't and they don't, and when he cracks open his eyes he can see John staring down at him, handsome and perfect and panicked beyond all recounting. "What?"

"You were dead and now you're not. It's hard to explain. Do me a favour and try not to think about it too much. It'll be better for everyone that way."

John pulls back a little – not much, but enough for Rodney to see more of his face beyond a strip of forehead and half-a-mop of hair. Enough for him to make out a pair of red-rimed eyes and a set of raw lips.

"You've been crying," he says in astonishment, bringing a hand up to cup John's rough cheek.

With a wet, startled laugh, John covers the hand with one of his own, his thumb running small circles on the back of it while his right seeks out – and finds – the other. "You were dead," he repeats, a little more animated this time. "Of course I was crying."

"You never cry."

"Yes, well, you've never been dead before."

"I love you."

"I know," John tells with a warm smile and a warmer light in his eyes.

Rodney shakes his head – not much, not to deny it, but just enough to make his point known. Which is, "I love you," spoken with such quiet sincerity even John cannot make a joke out of it. He has to make sure John knows. He has no idea how he's alive now, or where he is, or why nothing hurts, but in case it's only the briefest of respites before the real end, he has to make certain that John knows. He must.

John's smile is smaller now but infinitely more earnest. "I know."

"I love you," he repeats more quietly still, pulling the other man closer.

He feels the smile as well as the answering, "I know," against his lips before they brush against his in the most gentle of kisses.

It deepens quickly. John is quick to press any advantage he finds. While it is Rodney's hand that slips from his face and cups the back of his neck to pull him closer, it is John who manages to manoeuvre himself so that he now straddles Rodney's still prone form without letting go of his hand or breaking their kiss for longer than three seconds combined.

Something warm and light and fragile expands in his chest. John has owned his heart since almost the moment they met, but he can feel himself falling in love with him all over again.

John is brilliant. John is stunning. John is the best man he's ever known, somehow able to stay so remarkably human in the face of all he's seen. He's been called the last living Ancient, the Emperor of the Pegasus galaxy; the only true god in the entire universe. He could, quite literally, have anyone he wanted. But he chose him. Again and again, he's chosen him, and now Rodney doesn't need to worry about him choosing anyone else ever again because he's Ascended now-

Yes, he's Ascended. He can feel it. All of that power, all of that knowledge, it's his too. His for the taking, if he just chooses to reach out and take it. Maybe he should. Maybe he could be the kind of god John is. Maybe he can be the sort of man that Carson seems to think he already is. Maybe, if John helps him-

But all those things can come later. Right now, this is important. Right now, this is the only thing that matters. If the worst should happen and he should die again, he doesn't want to go to his grave without remembering the taste of John's lips. He wants the atlas of their bodies entwined to remain forever etched into his mind. The feel of John's body, pleasantly heavy atop of his as they kiss – just kiss – should always be at the forefront of his mind. And if there is a god other than John, he wants to lay these memories down before his throne as proof that he lived and he loved and he loved, loved, loved.

He breathes a laugh against John's lips.

"I'm glad I amuse you."

"I'm happy, you idiot. Happy people laugh. It's a thing."

The corners of John's mouth quirk upwards. His hair is a flyway mess haloing his face. His lips are bruised and his face is flushed and there's something bright in his eyes that cannot be attributed to Ascension alone. He is beautiful and open and perfect, and Rodney has no idea how he got to be this lucky, only that he is. "I like seeing you happy," he says. "It's been too long since I've seen you smile."

"I smile all the time." Both of his hands are now intertwined with John's now. His right now rests with John's left on his chest, the ouroboros trapped in and creating the space between their bodies. The other is bent back at a strange angle, his knuckles scraping against the strange stone ledge that makes up their bed near his left ear. If either were free, he thinks he'd slap John upside the head for the comment, but that would involve letting go. He settles for a somewhat fond, "Idiot."

But John frowns at this, his face going dark as he shakes his head fiercely. "No you haven't. Not really. Not since before Elizabeta died. Maybe not since before I Ascended. Maybe longer. And it's all my fault."

"John-" he tries to interrupt, frowning himself now.

"No, it is. I've done nothing but cause you so much pain and suffering. I love you, but all I've done is hurt you for so long… I don't know how you can stand to be around me. I don't know how you can even look at me and not want to make me pay for everything I've done to you."

Wryly, "The good tends to outweigh the bad."

"How can it? You don't even know half of what I've done. How can you let me touch you when there's so much blood on my hands it stains yours by association?"

"I thought you said the past can't hurt us if we don't let it."

John pulls back as much as he can and looks away – a difficult task, considering how they're so linked, but the Ancient manages it all the same. "I've killed people for less than I've done to you."

"You're starting to scare me, John," he says, struggling to sit upright. It's a difficult task, what with the way John's knees still bracket his thighs, but he manages in the end. The end result puts John's face in close proximity to his once more, but his expression is closed off now, his eyes flinty and alight with preternatural light. He's no longer his John. He's the man they call The Star That Fell From Heaven, The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, who is not a man at all but a god, righteous and terrible and really has murdered people for the thinnest of reasons.

But John's always has his reasons:

He killed the Tria survivors because they would have undone everything he had started with the Confederation, to say nothing of ever letting anyone from Earth return for any significant period of time. He killed Cadman because she begged him, Ford because he was a danger to the city, Sumner because it was the merciful thing to do. Maybe they aren't always good reasons, but they are the best ones. Usually that's enough for John to get on with. He can live with the consequences of any action he takes, so long as he believes it's the right one.

So long as he believes-

"You've done something," Rodney says slowly as realization dawns, "something you're not proud of. What is it?"

"Rodney-"

"What is it?" he asks more forcefully, scrambling backwards as best he can. Somehow, he manages to disentangle himself from John and scurry blindly backwards until he back hits a wall. If he pulls his knees into his chest, there's half-a-yard between them, but it's not enough. It may never be enough, because there is nothing John would not do if Atlantis or his friends' lives were at stake. Nothing. He committed genocide against the last members of his own race, for fuck's sake. If John cannot justify whatever it is to himself, it must be utterly unjustifiable.

Imagines of planets destroyed – of worlds utterly decimated – of Earth obliterated from the skies – dance through his head. The others once promised to wipe the worlds that worshiped John off the map if he gave into their heresy, and there is no doubt in Rodney's mind that John would do worse than that himself if he ever deemed it necessary.

"You were dead," John tells him dully.

"And that justifies whatever the hell it is you think needs justifying?"

"You were dead," he repeats with rising passion, "or, at least, I thought you were. You were trapped between planes – I hadn't pulled you all the way through. That's all that she meant, but I didn't understand. Not then. I didn't have all of the information yet."

"John, you're not making any sense." His eyes dart about the room, looking for anything that might give some clue as to both where they are and what John's done, but all he sees is a hallway that reminds him, somewhat disconcertingly, of the Galerie d'Apollon, albeit with a distinctly Ancient flair. The flagstone floor nearest them is covered with a layer of fine white dust, but other than that the hall is surprisingly bright and clean. If it was ever the site of an apocalypse, it wasn't in recent memory.

"There is too much to know… Knowledge takes time but wisdom takes longer. I thought she was mocking me. I thought she was belittling us. But she only wanted to help. She really did just want to help. It's so obvious now. Why couldn't I see it then? Why couldn't I see it in time?"

"What's going on, John? Who are you talking about?"

"Chaya, of course," he says like it's the most obvious thing in the universe. "The schismatica."

Utterly baffled by this answer, he asks, "What's she got to do with anything?" Rodney hasn't thought of her beyond the most fleeting suggestion of jealousy and irritation in ages. Why John might be talking about her now is beyond the scope of his wildest dreams – or worst nightmares.

"The Sangraal destroyed all the Ancients who ever Ascended – all of them, but for fifty-four who happened to be in a part of the higher planes that roughly corresponds with Pegasus. We're not-" John gestures emphatically, nonsensically, making impassioned movements with his hands that convey no meaning beyond depth of feeling. His eyes are bright and white and severe, and Rodney is filled with the terrible premonition that this is where he starts to lose him.

No, that's wrong. This is not the start. Ever since John Ascended, he's been slowly losing him, because the man who is The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, The Father of All Men and Maker of All Worlds is not the man he fell in love with. He looks the same, talks the same, even acts the same, but he's not the same. John, before, could care less about power. He did what he had to do, full stop, and if people wanted to give him medals for it, so be it.

But now…

But now it underlies his every action. He's tried to supplement his need for it by building the Confederation – by avoiding divinity by miring himself firmly in the profane, – but there is no averting apotheosis, not when one is an Ascended being. They wanted to turn him into a god, and so a god he's become, as great and terrible and capriciously vindictive as any ever dreamed by man.

Whatever John has done, he's done it for power. He's not able to live with it – yet – but he will. Because that is the way of power: it corrupts all in time, twisting all to its will until they can no longer see how gnarled and knotted they've become.

"It took us entirely too long as a species to realize it, but we are only as strong as we are united. On our own, we are each a threat to the collective. An Ascended being alone will, inevitably, give in to Haeresis," he says, as if voicing a truth he had refused to acknowledge until it passed his lips. "The others knew that, so they invited Chaya to return, spouting forgiveness and redemption and-

"It doesn't matter. They did to her what they wanted to do to me, but she was smart enough to know it wasn't real. She came to me for help and I killed her. I killed her because I needed her strength to pull you through. I needed you to not be dead, so I killed her."

John's killed people for him before, but not like this. Never like this.

"I didn't know I was doing it, but I did it. I had to save you. I had to."

Rodney has nowhere to go. He cannot run down the hall without moving past John. He cannot sink further into the stone. He's an Ascended being himself now but all he can think is that he has no options. He can only watch helplessly as John destroys himself, one word at a time.

"I-" he manages, somehow, to choke out. "I told you. You don't need your Ascended powers to protect me. I save you, you save me, remember?"

John looks away. He's still kneeling in the centre of the shelf, dark and black and terrible, eyes aglow and shadows dancing about his frame.

He's dressed like the first time Rodney saw him – the very first time Rodney saw him, in the uniform of a Lantean Guardsman, but in shades of charcoal and ebony and obsidian. Five silver stars sit upon his shoulders, three on one, two on the other; at his neck is the disc insignia of a legatus he inherited from his mother. Blood stains one whole side of his brigandine and the cuff of his opposite sleeve, and there are jagged slashes in the fabric where glass was once impeded.

"No one can save me now."

Oh God, oh God, he can still taste John on his lips. How can his heart be breaking now? "People make mistakes," he hears himself say, recalling Carson's earlier words. And how long ago was that? A year? A day?

"But not gods."

"You're not a god, John."

"They worship me. Isn't that enough?"

"John, please," he begs. "Listen to me. So you made a mistake. Don't give up everything you've worked so hard for because of that."

John jerks his head once, sharply, as if shaking off whatever last lingering uncertainties may remain. "Chaya Sar had been a schismatica for too long to give it up just because I asked. Even if I had helped her, she would have eventually become like the heretica Abomination, Adria. She would have destroyed millions. It was no mistake to kill her – but she did, at least, teach me one thing."

"And what's that?" Rodney squeaks, fingers pulling at his hair in a desperate attempt to convince himself this is not real, this is a death-induced dream, the fanatics were right and I've been sent to Hell for my sins.

"I'm not strong enough to protect you."

"I don't need protecting!" It's not scream. It's not a shriek either, though that may be the closest comparison. It's sharp and shrill and his voice cracks in places, and this has to be a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare because there is no way that John is saying what he thinks he's saying. "I can fight my own battles. I can take care of myself. I just need you to be at my side."

"I let you die!" John counters, and that is a scream, full of anger and rage and self-loathing. "I wasn't strong enough to save you. But I will be. A quarter of a billion people in Pegasus call me god already… That might be enough."

"You don't want to do this John."

"I have to."

"No, you don't. I'm safe now. I'm okay. Just, please, don't do this."

"I already have."

Never have three words so shattered – wrecked – broken him. He could have lived a hundred thousand years and never thought to see the day when John would go Ori, yet here it is.

Rodney tries to think of something, to formulate some response that will undo all of this, but then John moves forward, reaching out as if to weave their fingers together once more, and he finds himself saying harshly, "You don't get to touch me anymore."

Just like that, John changes again. He's no longer that god – that monster – Ascension has turned him into, he's John again, just John, looking as wretched as any lover might at those words. "Don't be like that, please."

A choked half-sob, half-laugh, entirely manic sound escapes him. "You want me not to be like this?" he asks, aware his words don't make anything but the barest sense, but it's the best he can manage. "I want you to be yourself again."

Frowning, "I am myself, Rodney."

"No, you're not. You, you've become that other Icarus. That first one. The one who betrayed your people."

"I didn't betray anyone," John says fiercely, drawing closer but stopping just short of actually touching him. "They betrayed me."

That may be true. The others are definitely at fault here, for everything from Ascending John in the first place to not stopping the Ori to not stopping John from becoming this. But John wasn't forced to take this path. He had to accept it willingly.

"John," he breathes.

But that is as far as he gets, because next thing knows John's shaking his head, as if he knows everything Rodney is going to say – has ever said – will ever say – before declaring with all the vehemence of the convert, "I will make you understand."

And then, quicker than his eyes can follow, John darts forward and kisses him on the forehead – hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to feel all the way to the back of his skull.

And then he is falling, falling into darkness. He scrambles for light, for purchase, for anything, but there is nothing, not even the whistling of air streaking past before he hits the ground.

* * *

8 April, 2007 / XXXVIII Mai. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

His eyes open.

There is no hatred in them, no fear, no betrayal, only sleep and confusion and the sort of bright, warm, pure elation one only gets upon seeing someone one loves unexpected.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Where did I go?" he coughs out, voice a rough. But that is only to be expected: Rodney's body converted to light and energy when he Ascended. When Iohannes Descended him, he needed a new one. This throat has never been used; this mouth has never spoken.

"You almost died. I nearly wasn't able to Ascend you in time."

"Then why does it hurt now?"

"You Descended." It's the truth, almost. He just had a little help, that's all.

"I don't remember."

"Don't try to hard," Iohannes says, perhaps too quickly. He hates it, but he can't risk Rodney remembering. Not until he can make him understand, make him see that this is the only way to keep him – and Atlantis and Pegasus and the whole damn universe – safe. "Descendant brains aren't made to deal with that much information, remember?"

"Yeah, I kind of picked up on that, thank you. But… There was something I wanted to tell you. Something I needed to tell you. Desperately. What was it?"

Iohannes heart freezes mid-beat. "Oh?" he says, trying to make himself sound anything close to normal.

He must succeed, for a second later Rodney is pushing himself in the hospital bed and snapping his fingers. "I remember now. I wanted to tell you I love you."

Iohannes smiles at him, so happy and relieved there are not words for the wonderful, light feeling growing in his chest, over and above the steady thrum of power outright singing in his veins. "I know."


	40. Coniunx, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole point of this one is supposed to be fluff. I really don't think I achieved it in this half, but it was getting long and popkin16 was desperate for reading material, and, well, maybe the fluff will come later. 
> 
> For various reasons, [this bit on Midway](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/278740.html) and [this bit on spaceships](http://aadarshinah.livejournal.com/277735.html) may prove helpful. Everything is translated in context, save for the title. Which means spouse.

16 May, 2007 / XXXI Iun. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"You're overreacting," he promises, giving Radek a quick, distracted smile as he emerges from the bedroom. "Also, have you seen my socks?"

"Borrow mine. And, no, I am not overreacting. I am reacting perfectly reasonably, děkuju mnohokrát."

"No bachelor party planned by Carson Beckett is going to be that wild. He'll probably make everyone go one-for-one with water for each beer you drink and hand you a couple aspirin at the end of the night. And there aren't any in the drawer."

"Check under the couch."

"Why would there be socks under the couch?"

Radek shrugs from his place at the small table he's crammed into the room next to the even smaller kitchenette. The suite can only optimistically be called such – it's more of an on-call room really, part of the same complex that makes up the hangars where Aurora and Thetis live when they're not on missions. Evan calls it cramped. Radek calls it European. They agree to disagree.

Sighing, he grabs a flashlight from the pile of gear atop the coffee table and gets down to eye level with the gap between the sofa and the floor. "I see three pens, an empty magazine, and what must be all of the change that was in your pockets when we left Earth, but no socks."

"Maybe there are some in the laundry bag."

"The one from last week? No," Evan says quickly, ducking back into the bedroom, "don't answer that. I love you, Radek, but your organizational skills are crap."

"My organizational skills are prioritized," he hears Radek correct from the other room. "They keep Atlantis running, our bosses functional, and the floor clear enough that we can find both bed and coffee maker. Everything else is secondary."

"You may have a point there."

"Do not sound so surprised."

"I am: I just found the last two socks we own and they match and everything. It's a minor miracle."

He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls them on. He's already in the rest of his Guardsman's uniform, having taken extra care to make sure that the lacings on his brigandine are straight, that his dove grey vambraces are unstained. All that remains are the knee length boots, which somehow stopped seeming ridiculous months ago, and now feel almost like armour against the life he had before.

It's best to pretend that life doesn't exist anymore, that he never had a life on Earth, that he really is Icarus' son. Then he doesn't have to think about the fact that the Air Force dropped his name from the rolls, or told his parents he's 'in collusion with the enemy' and emailed him the audio recording of the resulting conversation, or numbered the list of Evan's supposed crimes so high that he's likely to be the first person the US military executes in forty-six years if he ever sets foot on Earth.

Atlantis is his home now. There's little for him left on the world of his birth, but he would have preferred not to burn those bridges. But he supposes he did that the moment he beamed the twenty-three Émigrés aboard Rory and high-tailed it back to the city – an action for which Icarus has given him a single silver star to sit on his shoulder, as blindingly bright as the praetor's insignia at his throat and the embroidery on his shirtsleeves.

"But seriously though," Evan continues, lacing his boots, "McKay is your friend and it's his bachelor party. Go, bring proper booze, have a good time. I promise you it'll be nowhere near as bad as you're imagining and, if it is, you can always sneak into the Colonel's. I can guarantee neither of us would mind."

Voice growing closer until he's leaning the doorway of the bedroom, "It's not so much the bachelor party as it is the guest list," Radek tells him, coffee cup in hand, fond smile belaying his worried tone. "You can't tell me you think inviting half of Earth's première gate team to the wedding isn't a horribly bad idea?"

"Of course I think it's a bad idea. We're five minutes away from a Lantean-Tau'ri war on a good day as it is. We don't need anything – or anyone – else fanning the flames. But he thinks that if he can just get through to the people at the top – General O'Neill and Colonel Carter, even Doctor Jackson – that he'll be able to accomplish something."

Radek hums. "And what do you think?"

"If it can convince them to pull Colonel Telford, then I'm all for it. He's half the problem. I mean, Marines are Marines, but usually they're more reasonable than they've been since the Expedition came back, especially the ones vetted by the SGC. But the man wants a war, or at least to be the one in charge of Atlantis, and there's nothing that we'll ever be able to do to convince him otherwise."

"That would be ideal outcome, yes."

"It's certainly the one I'm hoping for."

"But not the one you're expecting."

"No," he sighs. "Not really." Because there's just as much chance that the Terrans will arrive in the city, take one look at Sheppard, and declare him the next Big Bad they have to fight.

Radek sets his coffee on the dresser and sits beside him on the edge of the bed. Technically, it is Radek's bed. Evan has one of his own aboard Aurora that he usually stays in, even when she's in port. They try not to take this thing between them seriously, neither of them knowing which mission might be their last. But it's hard – so hard, especially like this, when Radek's sitting next to him, his hair still mussed from sleep, and things are so comfortable and easy that it hurts to think that he can't have this forever, because they've promised themselves they'll make no promises.

He loves Radek, he really does, but there are times when he honestly thinks they'd be happier if they'd never gotten together rather than rather having to keep forcing distance between themselves.

"I do not think it will come to war."

"Feeling optimistic today, are we?"

"Ne," Radek says, shaking his head before bumping his shoulder against Evan's. He's hyperaware of the touch, as if they'd not done much more in much further states of undress. Radek makes him feel like a teenager all over again, like everything is new and wondrous and exciting, and it makes him want to end it all because Evan cannot stand the fact that he cannot say I love you without turning it into a parody of itself, couched in jokes and exasperation; that his toothbrush in Radek's bathroom borders on too much commitment even after almost a year of being together. He wants, well, not what Sheppard and McKay have – not yet – but he'd like to start moving in that direction rather than carefully measuring out steps backwards for each forward movement they make.

"No one in charge wants a war. If they thought John was actually dangerous, it that would be another story, but he's not. So they will be content to leave him to sort out the problems of the Pegasus galaxy – the Wraith and Replicators and so on. But until the regime changes, or until John does something to make them seriously consider him a threat, we are good. We are safe."

"I wish I could believe you," Evan says. The touch remains. He leans into it now, wanting it to be more than it is, but even if it could be, there's no time. The Terran delegation is coming in a few hours and then after that it's a whirlwind of activity through the wedding until the thirty-sixth, which will mark the one-year anniversary of Icarus' Ascension. And then, after that, if all goes according to schedule, everything will be in place for Sheppard's big plan.

"You should. I am very smart."

Evan snorts.

"The Colonel is many things, but carless about the people under his protection is not one of them. He will be going out of his way to show his guests that he is a kind and benevolent ruler, not worth starting a war over at all."

"He is a kind and benevolent ruler," he says with a frown.

Radek gives him a half-smile before pushing himself off the bed. "Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?"

* * *

They have a whole hell of a lot to worry about, actually, because Evan-

-has watched Sheppard stand on a hillside of a lifeless world, touch his hands to the earth, and lift a half a million tonnes of iron ore to the surface with the power of his mind alone.

-has seen him take steel ingots hot and glowing from the mills on the other end of the South-West Pier, warping and twisting them with his mind until they have become the skeletons of the new battleships he building in the hangar – great ships, dozens of times over longer than Daedalus, six times larger than even Aurora; two of them at once, to be filled by the Argosy training on Genia.

-has looked on as he's healed the sick and cured the blind and done a thousand impossible, wonderful, magical things, and there is every chance that SG-1 will only glance at him and not see one man with extraordinary gifts doing everything in his power to help others and see instead another enemy for them to tear down.

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

"The Terran delegation arrives in fifteen minutes," Evan tells Colonel Telford with forced cheer as he takes the Gate Room stairs two at a time. He pauses briefly to catch Jinto, racing up the steps the opposite direction, by the collar and say, "No running."

Jinto looks for a second like he's about to say something, most likely about how he's already late (his shift started five minutes ago), but instead he smiles charmingly at him before saying, "Yes, Lord 'Helianus," and continuing up the steps at a slightly slower pace. He sighs, because Sheppard indulges the city's few children terribly, and nothing he says will ever stick unless all the planets and stars align so that it's something that his adoptive father happens to agree with him upon – like arriving to one's shifts on time, if not running in the halls.

"Isn't it a little beneath you to be babysitting, my lord?" Telford sneers.

Around anyone else, the Colonel can usually hold his temper, but when left in Evan's company he cannot seem to help but reverting to the same jackbooted methods of some of his Marines. Radek calls it twisted envy, that Evan should be praetor and heres of such a magnificent city while Telford is nothing more than military commander of the part they let the Second Expedition lease – but, then again, Radek also thinks Jinto has a crush on him, so what does he know?

No, most likely it is plain old resentment that colours Telford's words and nothing more. Telford is a full-bird colonel, whereas Evan was only a major when the Hegira stripped him of his rank and his homeworld. Yet it is to Sheppard – or, in practice, Evan, – Telford must report at the end of each day. Very few people would be happy with that situation, regardless of the posting involved.

"Nah, otherwise I'd have sent Doctor Ahavah to deal with you," Adi Ahavah is a physicist who'd served in the Israeli Defence Forces before getting her degrees, and who is thus the closest thing he has to an executive officer among the Émigrés.

Telford's face colours comically.

Major Teldy steps in strategically at this point. "Gentlemen, if you'd start acting like the fine, upstanding officers I know you can be? Otherwise kindly whip out your measuring sticks somewhere else – preferably somewhere that's a nice, long distance away from my Gate Room."

"Gladly, Major," he agrees. He likes Teldy. She's terrifyingly competent in a way that Evan can't help but admire and takes absolutely no shit from anybody, including her commanding officer.

Luckily, the Gate activates before anyone has time to say much else.

Vala Mal Doran is the first one through, her already bright smile widening when she sees him. "Hello, Handsome," she says, not quite flinging herself at him, but stopping close enough that he knows a hug of some sort is required. Which he gives, gladly, "Not quite the welcoming party I was expecting, but I'll take it. You still taken?"

"Very much so."

"That remains one of the most tragic things I have ever heard. I would weep if it wouldn't ruin my makeup." She pulls back, examining him at arms length as she says, quite seriously, "They claim it's waterproof, but it never really is. Now," her hands fall from his shoulders, "where is Good Looking?"

"Vala, let the man go," Doctor Jackson asks tiredly, coming up from behind, his entrance unnoticed in the chaos that naturally surrounds Vala.

"Not everyone is so adverse to a little human contact as you, Daniel," she replies peevishly. "And, if you'd bothered to pay attention, you'd have noticed I wasn't even touching him anymore."

Sighing, "Fine, yes, where is John anyway? Or Rodney, for that matter?"

"I was just asking that-"

"It's alright. I'm here," Icarus calls, coming through one of the side hallways. He's sans robe and brigandine for once, wearing only a blood red tunic with embroidery at the collar and grease down the front and a pair of dark pants that are stained from the knee down. "Sorry I'm late, there was a problem at the steel mill. There were some impurities in the last lot of ore we didn't pick up on and, well, we lost a whole batch of joists. Luckily we're ahead on production and so it shouldn't-"

Sheppard stops suddenly, the tired grin he'd been sporting all but falling off his face. He looks slowly between the still open Gate, Doctor Jackson, and Colonel Carter (who has only just rematerialized on this side) for a moment before asking the room with quiet deliberation, "Anyone care to explain to me why 'Lantis is telling me that she's picking up radiological signatures coming from Midway?"

Startled, Evan's eyes snap to the ceiling. But before he can so much as ask, the city tells him-

/We do no know what Iohannes is talking about. Our sensors are picking up nothing unusual coming from the navale beyond what seems to be an excessive number of bio-sign readings./

/How excessive?/ he asks while Carter answers-

"It is a precaution, nothing more."

Icarus spreads his arms out wide, showing them to be open, empty, and not a little grease stained. "You'll notice I'm not pointing any weapons in your direction."

"No, but you wouldn't need to, would you?" she says, sounding perfectly reasonable in her concern, as Atlantis informs him-

/Enough for more SG teams than a navale that size could reasonably need. We count in total thirty-seven people aboard./

/Which is sixteen more than Midway was deigned to hold,/ he sighs internally. /What are their files saying about it?/

The pause before she answers is interminable. /That we are dangerous. That we are to be feared./

"We have done nothing to threaten you. We have done nothing to harm you. We've given you every ZPM we could spare, given you knowledge and technology and access to this city when we could have easily refused you all of it after you abandoned us to our fate. And yet you point nuclear warheads through our porta and call it precaution."

"The Asgard are gone," Carter informs them stiffly, as if she understands the logic of her words but is uncomfortable with their reality. "The Ori have been defeated. Adria is defeated. This leaves you as the most powerful being in the universe. Can you not understand why some people might not be scared?"

"Not when I've done nothing but help." Icarus' arms fall heavily to his sides. One twitches towards the still-active Gate, which shuts off shortly thereafter, and if Evan hadn't caught that brief movement he imagines he would have thought the Gate had disconnected naturally. "Nuclear weapons pointed in my direction tend to make me disinclined to continue that."

"Then help us to make them see reason."

"We're on your side, John," Jackson cuts in. "You have to believe that. But not everyone back on Earth is as convinced of your good intentions as we are."

"I shouldn't have to convince them of anything," Sheppard responds coolly, but with a level of petulance that undermines any attempt to take his anger seriously. "They should be able to see that I'm only trying to do what's in everybody's best interests and just let me."

"Just give them time. They will."

"Well," Vala declares in the silence that follows this pronouncement, lurching forward to grab Sheppard's arm, "I for one think that's enough posturing for one day. What do you say you go show us what it is that's gotten you so deliciously dirty, and then we can talk about what we're going to do for your bachelor party."

* * *

"We're calling them Victoria and Vindicta."

"Victory and Vengeance," Jackson translates, staring up at the huge spaceships that dominate the hangar and dwarf Aurora. Despite this, however, Rory maintains pride of place in the centre of the now crowded hall, and he's caught Sheppard standing near her as he works, explaining process of building her new sisters to her with soft and easy words that make him feel like he's intruding upon something fragile and special. Sheppard is proud of his creations, but he loves Rory.

"It seemed appropriate," Icarus agrees with a nod. "They're not as big as the Tethys-class was – only about half the size, really – but they should more than do the job."

"Half? This one's got to be eighteen thousand meters long. At least."

"Twenty-one thousand and two, actually. She'll have eight batteries of five hundred fifty railguns spread across twelve decks when she's completed, along with three hundred drone tubes and six launch bays capable of holding two hundred sixty of your F-302s each. Rodney's is working on a design for our own fighter-interceptors, of course, since the jumpers were only really ever designed to be runabouts, but I doubt we'll have more than a few off the line by the time Victoria and Vindicta are ready to launch."

Carter whistles, moving beneath the half-plated skeleton of Victoria. She's a little further along than her twin, with a rounded sort of bow that reminds Evan somewhat of a dolphin's nose, slowly curving upward to encompass the higher decks, and ending quite suddenly in an utterly sheer stern that runs straight from Deck 1 to Deck 12, unbroken by anything save for six thin vertical slits for the engine exhausts.

Victoria is a strange mix of gentle curves and sharp angels, beautiful in that undeniably exotic way that most Ancient technology proves to be, although much of her design is of Terran origin. While she is naked and raw now, with little more than a third of her milky grey hull plating lain down and a great many of her pipes and cables lying exposed for all to see, that elegance remains.

She is nothing at all like Rory, but then again, few things are.

"What I want to know is how you've managed all this in, what, five months? It took us over two years to build Prometheus and four to build Daedalus – and we had ten times the manpower you do."

"Six weeks, actually."

"Six weeks?" Carter sputters. "That's impossible, even for you."

Icarus shrugs. "Thank Jackson here, actually. Your little stunt with the Sangraal knocked the total number of Ascended beings in the known universe down to fifty-two, which is far too few for them to keep their threats of planetary annihilation."

"You mean the others are just letting you build ships that will drastically change the course of human existence in this galaxy?"

"The times, they are a-changing, Doctor Jackson."

"And what, precisely, does that mean?" Vala asks, her eyes drifting away from the linter long enough to cast a concerned look Sheppard's way.

Shooting her a wide grin, "It means that this galaxy is finally going to have the peace it deserves and they can't stop me, no matter how much they might want to."

Icarus turns back to look over his creation proudly, but Evan watches his guests. And their reactions are telling.

It will be war.


	41. Coniunx, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The random list of Emigres is on my lj. 2) The 1815 Philadelphia train incident was a thing. Technically it isn't a train accident at all - that honor goes to the accident that claimed Minister William Huskisson's life a few years later. There is a connection. Think about it. 3) Hibiscus is the latin name for the mallow plant. Hibisci means "Of mallow," and could vaguely resemble a real food. Althaea is their name for what we'd call marsh mallow. 4) That may be it.

17 May, 2007 / XXXI Iun. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

"There's not going to be a war. Stop being paranoid; it's not a look that works on you. Leave the Cold War-era thinking to your better half and let me get back to work."

Radek makes an amused sound from across the room, where he's connecting the circuitry of what will be part of the master engineering systems display panels. "Does this mean I am no longer assigned to water treatment repair?"

"What? No. Where would you get an idea like that?" McKay asks, genuinely surprised as he edges out from under an environmental control console on the opposite end of the room. He looks tired – although, honestly, he's never quite stopped looking tired since his brush with Ascension a month ago. It makes Evan worry.

(Granted, sometimes it feels like all he ever does anymore is worry – about Atlantis, about Icarus, about Rory and anyone who's ever set foot near any of the three. But with McKay it's genuine concern, particularly when he watches the lights on the new Device sitting at the top of his spine flicker from green to red.)

"You called me the better half just now. Definite improvement over before."

Baldly, "Of course it's an improvement. It's not like you could actually get any worse. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook with the water treatment systems. You earned that punishment and, if I have anything to say about it, which I do, it will be your duty until the day you die. Or," he gestures sharply in Radek's direction, "you discover cold fusion. You discover cold fusion, and I'll let you off the hook with the water treatment systems."

"I am curious. This irrational hatred, does it make you mother- or father-in-law in this scenario? I only ask because-"

A pair of wire strippers, not particularly well aimed, goes flying across the room to land about three feet behind and to the right of Radek. He tucks his laguiole knife into his belt, plucks the wire strippers off the floor, and resumes his work with the proper instrument. "Is always a pleasure working with you, Rodney."

"This is why," Rodney declares, now waving a pair of needle-nosed pliers in his direction, "Carson is my best man, not you. Also, I reject your narrow-minded need to pidgin-hole John and I into the man and woman of our relationship. It's ridiculous and absurd and, being at least a two on the Kinsey Scale, you should know better. Or," the pliers turn dangerously in Evan's direction, "you should two work on that."

"Is there any chance we can steer away from this deeply uncomfortable conversation," Evan asks instead, "and back towards the rather more pressing issue of the fact that your soon-to-be-husband, my adoptive father, and your," he waves an irate hand in Radek's direction, which surprises no one more than himself, "whatever-you-want-to-call-it is inadvertently trying to start a war with the one species left in the universe that is actually capable of doing us some harm?"

Ever the devil's advocate, Radek asks, "What about the Wraith? Or the Replicators?"

"We're already at war with them."

"Are we actually at war with the Replicators? I merely ask because I am curious, as they have not actually attacked us and we have done nothing more than spy on them from the edge of the Asuran system."

"If we're not, we soon will be."

"No we won't," McKay insists, climbing to his feet and dusting off his knees. He's not very successful, but luckily his clothes are a dusky shade of blue that hides the dirt well. A small blessing, in case he runs across any of the delegations in the city for the wedding later.

People who've never met McKay always have a hard time believing he would be the man their god has chosen to marry unless he looks half-divine himself. It has a tendency to cause problems, mostly of the sort where heads of state come to him suggesting that he push a more appropriate candidate – such as their daughter, or sister, or (in one memorable case) themselves – Icarus' way.

"We're building spaceships to bomb their planet back to the Palaeozoic, Pops," Evan reminds blandly. "I think its safe to say there will be a war,"

"And as I keep telling you: there won't. Not with the Replicators and not with Earth either. War implies a prolonged conflict between two more or less equal forces. What we're doing here is a building a technological smokescreen for the most powerful being in the universe to use to exterminate any entire sentient species he feels like in one fell swoop. That's not war. That's the definition of genocide."

"And we're just okay with this?" They may have had their disagreements with Earth, but they all have people they care about back there and there are plenty of people utterly innocent of any wrongdoing. To talk so casually, so openly about their annihilation… This is not what he'd signed up for.

(But, then again, it never is.)

"What? No, of course not. I'm just saying that, if Earth ever does try to go to war with us, the only question is going to be not, however will we survive, it will be, will we send the spaceships to do our dirty work or will John go himself?"

"And," Radek inserts, "it will never come to that, because nobody in charge wants a war. As long as Earth has access to Atlantis, they will not risk their golden goose."

Evan sakes his head, biting his lower lip and searching for words that will make them understand. "You didn't see the look on Colonel Carter's face."

"She's probably just jealous of how quickly we've built Victoria."

"She's probably just thinking of the best way to get a nuke past Victoria's shields," he counters.

"Oh, please," McKay snorts, "like you haven't thought about the best way to get a bomb past Daedalus'. You're military. She, more the shame, is military. It's something your lot does. Can we perhaps move on to more important questions, like why you're here, bothering us of all people with your paranoia? Or maybe where Kununsagi and what's-his-name went? You know the one I'm talking about. The smarmy computer scientist with the ridiculous French accent and the," he gestures at his chin, "Van Dyke who still thinks Fortran is the last word in programming."

"You mean Doctor Durand?"

"Yes," McKay snaps triumphantly.

Profoundly exasperated, "Durand is French," Radek reminds him.

"That doesn't make it any less-"

"You two argue like an old married couple," Evan says rather more waspishly than he'd intended, halfway to the door with a pair of long strides. "Maybe you two should be the ones getting married."

* * *

Jinto gives him his brightest smile when he walks into the wide stretch of hallway that doubles as the lobby to Icarus' public office. "Lord 'Helianus!" the boy begins, practically bounding from behind his desk to great him, "To what do we owe this wonderful-"

Evan steps around him quickly, taking the steps quickly as he heads for the door that will take him into Sheppard's office proper.

"-surprise," he finishes somewhat dumbly before regaining admirably with, "Lord 'Helianus, Sir! Lord Iohannes in the middle of a very important meeting and-"

Atlantis opens the door for him without even perfunctory pause, and leaves it open while he tells Icarus, "We need to talk."

"Alright," Sheppard agrees, sparing the time to give Evan a bemused smile before turning his guest and saying, "Minster Beade, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short. It was nice to meet you and I look forward to working with you in the future."

The man – Minister Beade, who is, in all honestly, the prettiest man Evan has ever laid eyes on, all carved cheekbones and perfect skin and absurdly dark eyes – nods sharply, the sour look that momentarily overtakes his features not pretty in the least. The irritation is long gone by the time he says charmingly, "I quite understand, my Lord. It has been pleasure enough to finally have you to myself for even but a few minutes. I will see myself out."

Eyebrow rising of its own accord, Evan finds himself asking, "Who was that?" his ill humour momentarily forgotten as Atlantis closes the doors on them.

"Idris Beade, the new Daganian Minster for Enterprise and Innovation."

"What happened to Allina?"

"She's dead – boiler explosion during the demonstration of an experimental steam engine," he explains, sounding far from put out over the event. "It's all very tragic. Thirteen workers and members of the Ministry delegation were killed, including Allina, and twenty-five others were injured. But historically early efforts with heat engines are almost always tragic, regardless of planet or species. But Minister Beade was just telling me how he was chosen to replace her and asking that we send someone from the University over to help keep things from maybe being quite so tragic in the future."

"He seems very…" There is no polite way to end that sentence. His mouth seems to realize this before his brain and supplies the word, "symmetrical," before Evan can come up with anything better.

Sheppard laughs – honestly, brightly, awkwardly, as if they were fellow soldiers at a bar on leave in some city whose language they couldn't even speak and with unspent pay checks burning a hole in their pockets, instead of all the artifices that have risen up between them. "I think he knows even less about science than I do, which is something I hadn't imagined possible. Then again, I'm fairly certain he wasn't chosen for his abilities, if y'know what I mean."

"Oh, I'm sure he was. Just probably not the ones he should have been."

The laugh this startles out of Sheppard is even brighter still. "You're probably true on that one. But what is it that you wanted to talk about anyway?"

"Ah." He feels himself flushing unexpectedly. He's not embarrassed by his concerns, not really, but after even a momentary distraction his concerns no longer feel as pressing, as important. They seem, well, more like the overreactions Radek and McKay seemed to think they are and not at all like something worthy of interrupting a meeting with a man who will likely become the face, if hardly the brains, of the Moralist party now that Allina is gone. "It's your plan. I don't think it's working like you wanted it to."

"Is that so?" Sheppard asks giving no indication of is own thoughts on the matter.

"Yes, it's just, I know what you're trying to do here. You want to convince Colonel Carter and Doctor Jackson you're not a threat. But calling them out on their nuclear deterrents – which you and I both know Atlantis had no clue about until you mentioned them – and then showing them your spaceships, which are only second to you and this city in their destructive capabilities, is not the way to go about it."

"Maybe I'm just trying to put the fear of god in them."

Evan rolls his eyes at the joke. "You've spent too long trying to blend in to come out of the shadows now, Icarus. Besides, you care about this city too much to ever jeopardize her safety in any way, and starting a war with the Terrans would do just that."

Icarus has changed clothes since Evan's seen him last. He's geared for war, albeit luxuriously so, in a night black brigandine woven through with silver thread, with a long-sleeved tunic stiff at the collar with silver couching. Over this he wears his usual vambraces, the pitch black ones that reach from elbow to wrist, and it is the laces of theses he picks at while he fails to meet Evan's eyes. "I shouldn't have to convince anyone of anything. They should just be able to look and see that I'm only doing what's best for Atlantis – for all of Pegasus, even. That's all I've ever done. That hasn't changed."

"Yes, well, not everyone is just going to trust that the most powerful being in the universe has only good intentions at heart. Particularly not those still fresh off a war with the Ori."

"What is the use of power, the point in knowledge, unless those with power use it to help those without?" Sheppard says, eyes flinty when they – finally – meet his. "I have always believed that. And the Terrans had no problem letting me believe that when I was mortal and they were the ones reaping the benefits. The only thing that's changed since I Ascended is the amount of power and knowledge I can bring to bear – but obviously since it is the Descendants in Pegasus who are the ones benefiting most from my power and knowledge, it cannot be allowed, can it?"

"That's-" he doesn't finish the sentence. Because not true is probably no longer true itself. "You've got to look at it from their perspective. Anything SG-1 has seen over the past decade that's even superficially resembled a god has almost always been some megalomaniacal alien with superior technology out to feed their ego at the expense of everyone else. They don't know what to do with an unbelievably powerful being who's actually as selfless and righteous and kind as he appears."

"I know. Believe me, I know," Sheppard says, running a hand over his face. With a sigh, "What do you suggest then?"

* * *

It's what qualifies for winter at this latitude on Lantea, but that doesn't mean that the city's esplanades are anywhere near chilly. All that it really means is that they get about a tenth as much rain, none of the fog, and a pleasant northerly breeze that lessens the tropical heat, but Icarus calls it winter and the rest of them go along with it because it sounds better than the dry season.

Regardless of the actual temperature, Evan uses it as an excuse to light a bonfire, dragging an old oil drum somebody turned into a makeshift barbecue in the first year of the Expedition out to the far edge of the North Pier. It's hardly a beach, but its close enough that it reminds Evan of the times his parents would take him and his brother and sister to the ocean when they were little, in those summers hazy with nostalgia in his mind. There's no sand, certainly no sandcastles, and the ocean is a good sixty-foot drop below, but it's comfortable.

It's home.

"Where on Lantea did you find hibisci?" Sheppard asks Vala, pawing through the basket of foodstuffs she'd brought with her.

"Which one-?" she begins, turning from her conversation with Doctor Jackson, only to swat him on the head and snatch back the small clay jar he's holding. "John Sheppard, you get your nose out of there this instant. If you want to give people your germs, there are much more fun ways to go about it."

Sheppard rolls his eyes, but thankfully says nothing to remind everyone that he's Ascended and therefore, in all likelihood, germ-free. "I'm sure there are, gemma, but monogamy suits us both just fine."

"Spoilsport," she says, her laugh belaying her pout as she investigates the contents of the pot she's stolen back. "And I found it in that marketplace of yours. This woman who couldn't have been even five feet tall well selling it along with a whole bunch of other sweets. She called it malvalekker, but it reminded me of this dessert they used to make on my home planet before I was taken as host. Mehalabeyya, we called it. Of course, I think this version uses agave nectar and dried cranberries instead of honey and dates, but its close enough."

"It is hibisci then. I've not seen it since I was a kid. My people were never big on sweets," he explains, handing back the pot's wide lid, "but we used pretty much every part of every plant we grew in the greenhouses. Althaea roots, when we had them, were a welcome change to the rice and beans and bean pastes that were normal fare for us after the city was submerged. Of course, they stopped making it after Nicolaa stopped attending classes. Hibisci is a children's food, and as she was the last child…"

Evan watches Vala and Jackson watch Sheppard with rapt fascination and doesn't try to supress his smile. It could easily have gone the other way, inviting their potential enemies to the Colonel's bachelor party, but so far things seem to be shaping up well. They have a bonfire, beer, and the unveiled stars above them. Maybe they can prevent war after all.

"I know what you're doing."

"And what's that, Colonel Carter?"

"Trying to make us forget that John isn't human. You might even succeed."

"Bully for me."

"You misunderstand me. I want to like John, it's just..."

"He's not human? That doesn't make him automatically evil, you know," he reminds her, continuing to feed the bonfire. It doesn't need it, but Sheppard doesn't need to overhear this conversation either.

"It does make him automatically good either." She glances at the others, who are now laughing as they deal out a pack of cards and break into Vala's supply of sweets. They look happy. They look normal. "When I first met John Sheppard, I knew even then that he was a good man, a kind man. Maybe even the best man in universe. To sacrifice so much for Atlantis and, later, for people he barely knew, he had to be."

"He's still that man."

"Is he?" Carter asks. "Don't get me wrong, that's all still there. I don't think anything could ever separate him from his need to keep this city safe.

"But look at him, Major: He's Ascended since then. He's emperor of a billion people and god to an entire galaxy. He is temporally, spiritually, and practically the most powerful being in the known universe. And you know what they say about power."

"Icarus is not corrupt. He's not going to go corrupt."

"I'm sure people said that about the Ori, once."

"Icarus knows he's not a god."

"Does he?"

There's only the briefest of hesitations before Evan answers, "Yes," because Sheppard has to remember the truth, but that's answer enough for Colonel Carter.

She puts a hand on his shoulder, which Evan would be quicker to shrug off if the angle of her body wasn't shielding the thumb drive she slips him with her other from Sheppard's sight. "Enjoy the party," she tells him before walking away and joining the others at their card game.

Evan pokes at the fire for another minute or two before dealing in, the USB safely in his pocket. He has no idea what's on it, let alone why Carter might want him to have it, but if she risked so much to get it to him…


	42. Coniunx, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly did intend to have the wedding in this story. That was why I named this story what I did. In fact, like 2 years of planning has gone into getting them to this wedding, which, yes, I have occurring on my parents' anniversary (May 19) because I'm a bit of a sap and that's almost always the wedding date I give characters in my stories. Anyway, as you might notice, we don't even make it that far, because I have discovered that I excel at angst and fail miserably at fluff. In fact, "Coniunx" was just supposed to be a quick oneshot before the season finale with drunken truth-or-dare and some oh my god, John is an Alien, aliens have different sociocutural norms than humans. I had actually planned this scene for quite a while.  
> Needless to say, none of this actually happened. But, happily, I have declared this story finished, the next one WILL BE THE SEASON THREE FINALE, and... well, it's always darkest before the dawn.  
> 1) The translation to the first bit of Czech is, 1- “This had better be an emergency. And I do not mean burst pipes. I mean the honest to god apocalypse." 2) The translation to the second bit is, “This is the last time I get into a drinking contest with a Scotsman. I've not been this hungover since freshman year." 3) Yes, everyone has taken to shortening Argathelianus to Helianus, because its slightly less pretentious. And shorter. 4) The Millennium Prize is $1 million. The Abel Prize (the Nobel for math) is $1 million as well. 5) Tunney is from "Brain Storm". The other corporations mentioned are from S9 SG1, and were once controlled by the Trust, when the Trust was controlled by Ba'al's clones. Mostly. 6) And I think that's it.

18 May, 2007 / XXXI Iun. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

Evan has to hold his hand in front of the sensor for almost five minutes before someone actually opens the door.

"Doufám, že to bude nutné," Radek mumbles darkly, his words so slurred they verge on unintelligible. "A nemám na mysli praskla potrubí. Mám na mysli poctivý bohu apokalypsy."

"No apocalypse, I'm sorry, but there is coffee," he answers with a smile, practically pressing it into Radek's hand as he blinks owlishly at him, clearly trying to make sense of his words. "Coffee," Evan repeats. "Káva."

That seems to simulate at least a few brain cells, as Radek proceeds to down half of it. Sighing happily, he says, "You are saint."

"Not exactly."

Radek rubs the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand, then runs it haphazardly through his hair. "Is too early to argue semantics."

"It's almost 1300."

"I reject your need to operate on diurnal cycle."

"Are you going to become nocturnal then?" Evan asks beginning to worry his smile might split his face, but he can't help it. The attempt at taming has only made Radek's hair wilder – less like he just rolled out of bed, yes, but more like he's on a manic cycle. It shouldn't be endearing, let alone adorable, but it is. He knows better than to mention it, but cannot contain the grin.

"Perhaps" he says, returning the smile. Pushing away from the doorframe he's propped himself up against, he waves Evan inside with what's left of his coffee. "I like to keep my options open. Be quiet," he adds as the door shuts behind them. "Rodney is still asleep and, if Carson's awake, he's still on bathroom floor. To je naposledy, co jsem se dostat do pitné soutěži se Skot. Nebyl jsem to kocovinu od prvního ročníku."

Impossibly, Evan's grin gets wider. "I thought you didn't get hangovers," he whispers as the tiptoe past the couch on their way to the bedroom.

McKay is out cold, half-a-dozen mardi gras necklaces in knots on his bare chest. A game of poker – or possibly Go Fish – lies abandoned on the coffee table, the tablets they'd likely abandoned them for balanced at various improbable angles nearby, covered with incomprehensible squiggles that might actually be equations or could just as easily be gibberish. A DVD menu is still cycling on one of the laptops, popcorn kernels and candy wrappers scattered wildly about it. A quick survey discovers no less than two-dozen mason jars in various states of emptiness in plain sight.

"I didn't think so either. I had forgotten just how unpleasant it could be. Now," he says, shutting the bedroom door, "what brings you to my door at this god-awful hour?"

"Do I have to want something?" Evan asks. The bed is unmade, the sheets a wild tangle on the floor, but he takes a seat on it anyway.

Radek practically falls face first onto the bed beside him. "I do not think I would be particularly good company right now," he says into his pillow.

"I always enjoy it," Evan says honestly, not missing the way this causes his lover's body to stiffen, as if he's said something wrong.

"You shouldn't say things like that. You only make it harder on both of us," he says quietly.

"How?" Evan asks just as quietly. "How am I making this harder, Radek? I'm not planning on going anywhere. Are you?"

Pushing himself up on his elbows, "Of course not. Do not be stupid. But," Radek tells him, "one day the Wraith will attack, or the Replicators, or there will be an accident off-world, or the water treatment system will malfunction, and then one of us will die. And then where will we be?" He shakes his head. "No. Is better this way."

"I think we're long past the point of being unable to hurt each other."

"But not as much hurt."

"We both know that you're the only one who believes that," he says more quietly still. "I do love you, you know."

The room is silent for a moment, with even 'Lantis seeming to pause her song to see how Radek might respond to that, but Radek says nothing, and before the pause grows oppressive Evan pulls the USB from his pocket.

"Colonel Carter gave this me last night. Went to a lot of trouble to make sure Icarus didn't see it too, though its debatable if she actually succeeded."

"What is on it?" Radek asks, rising up a bit further.

Surprised, "I don't know," he answers. "I thought I should wait until we could open it on a non-networked computer. One with every safety protocol you can think of on it and a few more you come up with just for the occasion."

"Good idea."

"I have those every now and then."

"Hmm. Hand me that laptop – no, not that one, the one underneath. It should have the firewalls we need. Thank you. Now, let's see if we can't find what they want us to see…"

* * *

He's just gotten back from a run and still rinsing off the soapsuds when his earwig goes crazy. He'd left it on the edge of the sink while he showered but it's buzzed itself to the floor by the time Evan reaches it, hurriedly trying to dry himself off enough that he won't electrocute himself when he shoves it in his ear.

"'Helianus here."

"Ah, Evan, thank god," Radek says quickly over the comm without even a comment about how breathless he sounds, which is as sure a sign of a Grade A Crisis if there ever was one. "Please tell me you are near the hangar."

"I'm on Aurora right now."

"Drop whatever you're doing. Rodney is about to do something very stupid and you must stop him, for all our sakes."

"What kind of stupid?"

"He's gone to confront Sheppard. We read the files on the USB Carter gave you," Radek explains. Water drips from his hair, soaking Evan's tunic as he shrugs it on as quickly as possible, and the soap is already starting to dry in places. It'll be uncomfortable before long, but there are more important things at stake here. "I know you wanted to know right away when we finished our scans, but Rodney did not want to wait and, well, he did not react well to the files."

"Are they that damning?" he asks, because it's not outside the realm of possibility that they're faked or at least exaggerated. Earth wants their help to overthrow Icarus. They're not going to tell them the full story if they can't help it. And McKay should know that.

"On their own? Not so much:

"For instance, he has been using his prize money to play the stock market, but that is nothing new. Sheppard has been doing that for a while to fund operations in the city. The only difference is that, between the Millennium Prize and Abel Prize and a few others he has been awarded, he now has around two-and-a-half million US dollars to play with."

Evan whistles. He hadn't thought there was that kind of money in math, particularly Icarus' self-admittedly obscure branch of it. "What's so bad about that?" he asks, shoving bare feet into half-laced boots. "That just means more money for the hospital and the university-"

"-and to build battleships with. But, no, I do not think they are overly worried about our transistor purchases as much as they are the shares he holds in several of businesses involved in their construction of F-304s. It is nothing much, nothing anywhere near controlling, but I suspect that they keep tabs on anyone who acquires five percent of Colson Industries stock in six months, or eight percent of Farrow-Marshall Aeronautics, or twelve percent of Stanton Research."

"But why would that make McKay mad?" Evan asks, the door of his quarters closing behind him as he makes for the transporter at the end of the passageway. "I mean, we all knew he was doing it, even if no one paid much attention to the details."

"I do not know. It may have been the articles. Several of the files," he explains, "are copies of papers that Sheppard has published in mathematical journals back on Earth in the last few months, a great many of them since Rodney's brush with Ascension."

"And this made McKay upset?"

"Like I said, I do not know. One moment we were looking at the file directory, the next moment he went running off like a madman."

"And you're sure he's gone to confront Icarus?"

"Where else would he go?" Radek asks honestly. Sighing, "I have never seen him so upset. It was worse even than last year, when the others Ascended John and we had no idea if he was dead or alive. That was heartbreak, plain and simple. This…" his words catch in his throat, as if giving voice to his fears might cause them to give rise. "He looked like his world was ending. I think he might cancel the wedding."

"Holy shit."

"Do you understand now? We cannot let him do something he'll only regret later."

"Alright. God. I understand. Fuck," he breathes, realizing he's stumbled to a halt in the middle of the loading bay, about fifteen meters from the gangplank that's4 almost permanently lowered whenever Aurora's planet-side. He starts walking again, picking up the pace to make up for lost time. "I'll catch him, I promise. I'm almost off the ship. I mean, hell-"

-and then McKay's voice – echoing and tremulous in the vast hangar – comes sharply, calling out Sheppard's name from some place far too close to the gangway and just out of sight from Evan's place just inside the hatch.

Evan moves to intercept him. He's seen McKay without Icarus and never wants to see it again, because as bad as Icarus had been without him, McKay had been far, far worse. But something keeps him in place – indeed, something has him moving further into the shadows, farther out of sight.

It's probably Rory's voice in his head, barely audible over Radek's voice through the comm and still almost imperceptible after he yanks the earwig out, telling him, /Hide. Do not let Pater see. Do not let Pater hear. Stay quiet and you might stay safe, Pastor./

/Why?/ is all he dares ask – or has time to – before Sheppard is responding-

"Rodney?" his own voice warm and resonant. His is the voice of a man utterly in love seeing the person whom he cannot live without. "What're you doing here? I thought you and Radek had some mysterious project you wanted to finish before-"

"Tell me it's not true," McKay demands, closer now, having none of it. "Tell me it's a lie, that it's all in my head; that I've been under too much stress and now I'm having a psychotic break. Tell me anything, just so long as it means that it's not true."

"That what's not true?" Icarus asks laughingly, as if McKay's dismay amuses him, which, admittedly, it's been known to do – but not like this, never quite like this. "Is it about last night? 'Cause it was Vala's idea to play truth-or-dare and-"

"I saw the article."

"What article?"

"Malcolm Tunney's obituary in the Houston Chronicle."

"Who's Malcolm Tunney?" Icarus asks, echoing Evan's thoughts.

"Did you kill him?"

"Why would I kill someone I don't even know?"

"Don't play games with me, John. Just tell me, did you kill him?"

Quietly, reasonably, rationally, he asks, "Why d'you think I killed him?" He sounds so calm and collected and sensible that next to him McKay sounds half mad.

But there's something sincere in McKay's tone – something that says that he knows exactly how crazy he sounds, but knows he must speak nonetheless – that cannot be denied. It is with this tone that he continues, "Just tell me, John: did you kill him, yes or no?"

Sheppard doesn't say anything, but that's answer enough really.

Evan sucks in a sharp breath, then holds it for longer than is strictly advisable because Rory is telling him, /Quiet. Quiet. Quiet, or he'll hear,/ and he finds himself afraid of his adoptive father for the first time since Evan he met the man.

"Why did you kill him?"

Sheppard doesn't answer that question either.

"Fuck," McKay breathes, and they must be close if Evan can hear it, or the hanger must carry sound better than he ever suspected, or the nanoids in his head have done something to his hearing. Then, "What about Allina? Did you kill her too?"

Silence.

"Fucking hell, John. Do you have any idea how many people died in that explosion? 'Cause, from what I heard, they were only able to get a death count from the number of workers that were reported missing the next day, because it's not like Dagan has any dental records for their coroners to work from."

"Thirteen," Sheppard says clearly, quietly, and without remorse. "Thirteen people, including Allina."

"Why?"

"You know why, Rodney."

"Y-you knew?"

"I'm Ascended. Of course I knew."

"You never said."

"I thought you wouldn't want me to."

"But you thought I'd want her dead because of it? That I'd be willing to let you murder twelve other people to do it?"

"She needed to die," Icarus insists, absolute conviction filling his every word. Evan doesn't know what Allina had done, but when put in that manner even he has trouble believing otherwise.

But not McKay, who counters, "Like Malcolm needed to die? The man was an idiot, but a harmless one. God, John how many other people have you killed trying to protect me?"

"I've only done what had to be done to keep you safe."

"Bullshit. If that were really the case, you wouldn't be hiding it. You've wanted Allina gone since her little Moralist party started gaining enough ground to give you trouble. What did Malcolm have that you wanted?"

"You've got to believe me, Rodney-"

"I don't have to do anything. You've just told me you're going across the universe murdering people. You're lucky I don't just turn around and walk back out the door."

"Rodney, please," and Sheppard is pleading now, his voice desperate and plaintive but still filled with the surety of his beliefs, "you've got to understand. I'm doing this for you."

"Don't say that. Don't you dare put this on me."

"Rodney-

"This isn't you. You're a better man than this."

"Am I?"

"Of course you are. I've never known anyone to be more heroically self-sacrificing than you. If you'd asked me six months ago, I would've said that, if the universe had to choose someone to be its god, than it couldn't have chosen anyone better than you. But that was six months ago and, god," McKay admits, "I love you, but you've changed. I don't know who you've become, only that you're not the same person you were. That person wouldn't have committed genocide on his own race, or killed Allina or Malcolm or Chaya-"

As Evan wracks his brain for a face to put the name Chaya to, Sheppard's voice turns bitter cold. "What did you say?"

"I don't mean it as a criticism. I know you wouldn't be doing it if you thought you didn't have any other options, but you do, John, you do. You just can't see them anymore. You're so concerned with keeping me safe – with keeping 'Lantis safe – that you've turned your back on everything either of us has ever believed in to do it. We love you as much as we do precisely because you don't murder people to get your way, that you don't mind dissent, that you listen to other people. But now..." he sighs. "It's not too late to turn back.

"How do you know about Chaya?"

Frustrated now, "Did you not just hear anything I said?"

"How-?"

"What do you mean how? I saw the article about Malcolm's car accident and then I suddenly remembered that you killed Chaya to bring me back when I wasn't even dead – and don't think we won't be talking about that later. It just proves my point. Wiping people's memories? This isn't you. You have to see that. But you can still- John, what are you doing? John, stop it. Don't do this again. John, don't- John!"

Silence.

Evan's pressed into the shadows as much as the laws of physics will allow, but regardless of logic, he tries to sink further into the wall. Both his hands are over his mouth, trying to hold back any sound that might try to escape. Even his breath seems too loud, and a thousand fears flash across his eyes in an instant. Icarus wouldn't, couldn't-

"Hey John," McKay says cheerfully a minute or two later. "There was something you wanted me to take a look at?"


	43. Haereticus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW. It took forever to write this chappie, largely because I had a number of false starts and was overly perfectionist about it. It's not entirely what I had planned (I'd wanted to go a little further, but this seemed as good a point as any to end) but it does bring S3 to an end. Hopefully, S4 will not take anywhere near as long to write. Just know that, from the moment I decided to end S2 the way I did, this was the inevitable conclusion I was working towards. So please don't stone me. Unless it's with reviews. Stoning me with reviews would be okay. 
> 
> According to my handy dandy timeline, the events of SG-1's "Unending" occur on 17/18 April 2007. The events of The Ark of Truth take place on 3 May, 2007. John and Rodney's wedding occurs on 19 May, 2007. The events of this fic, and "First Strike," take place on 29 June, 2007, about 3 years and 3 weeks after the events of "Rising".

28 June, 2007 / IXXX Qui. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

Iohannes has never been more certain about anything in his life.

In precisely four hours, Victoria and Vindicta will launch, to join Thetis and Aurora already in orbit. Together, crewed by a handful of gene-bearing Émigrés and the first graduates of the preliminary military training facility on the Genii homeworld, and they will head for the Asuras. Once there, the four vessels will take equidistant positions around the planet and proceed to reduce it to such desolation that even servola like the Asurans will have to forsake it.

It shouldn't be hard. His people have succeeded at nothing like destroying everything they ever touched and the Descendants share their blood. Between their combined primitive desires and the most advanced weaponry to be built since Atlantis was completed sixty-five million years ago, they should have no trouble turning a green and fertile living world into ash and dust and devastation.

He will return in triumph. When he does, they will finally understand that, for all his power, for all his knowledge – for all his divinity – nothing about him has really changed. He is still their John Sheppard, their Colonel, their commander, their last living Ancient; their martyr. All that he does and all that he ever will do is to protect them. Only the tools at his disposal have changed.

And then Rodney will forgive him.

And then his reign can truly begin.

* * *

"This is possibly the worst plan we've ever come up with," Rodney calls out from the bathroom as he finishes getting dressed. The door is open so that Iohannes, from his position just inside the doorway to their bedroom, can watch whips of steam swirl around him and fog the mirrors. One of them reflects a smudged image of Iohannes himself, and it is this whom Rodney addresses as he shrugs into his jacket.

"What? Are you kidding me? This is the best plan we've ever had. For one thing, it's an actual plan."

"Alright, I'll give you that one," he agrees, making quick work of the buttons down the front before striking out on the laces that secure the attached leather braces, "But you know what they say, no plan survives contact with the enemy, especially when part of that plan has me sitting in the pilot's seat aboard Victoria and the rest of it has an anthropologist doing the same on Thetis."

"Doctor Morris isn't that bad."

"Again, anthropologist, not pilot."

"She's a better pilot that Carson," Iohannes shrugs. "You want some help with those?"

Rodney's reply comes almost before the question is finished. "Oh god, yes. What is it with your people and laces? Really, a billion years of scientific and cultural evolution and you couldn't come up with something a bit more user-friendly than laces?" he asks, trusting his arm at Iohannes. "No, what am I thinking? Your language is about as impossible as explaining colour to the blind."

"I wouldn't go that far," Iohannes says, swiftly setting the lacings to rights. "Yellow is the warmth of sun on your face on a cloudless day. Blue is the cool of the ocean when you stick your feet in on a hot day. And I love you means the same whether I use English or Alteran or Tuyuca or goa'uld."

"That was almost poetic. Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

Iohannes rolls his eyes. "Hilarious. Left arm please."

Rodney takes back his right arm and presents him with the left. "Look, I'm not saying it doesn't need to be done. The Replicators are machines gone wrong. They're not like 'Lantis or Rory. I saw the dead-man's program your cousin sent them: all they're doing is building up their fleet so they can go out and wipe out all the inhabited planets in the galaxy in one fell swoop. But…

"But it's a good plan. A good plan that shouldn't be ruined by me in one pilot's seat and an anthropologist in another."

"The lintres are finished now."

"The lintres can wait until the end of time," Rodney spits back, mimicking his inflection closely, if clumsily, "if that's what it takes for us to be ready."

"They can," he agrees, quietly lacing the vambrace, "but we can't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I would love to give Doctor Morris five more weeks of flight training and maybe some practice in the cathedra, but the Asuran fleet will be ready within the week." Rodney breathes in sharply at this. He had not guessed. "Our forces are formidable, but their numbers would be overwhelming. If we're to have any chance of succeeding, we must do it now."

"How'd you know? Why didn't you say something?"

Tiredly, "You know how I know, Rodney. And I didn't tell you because you always get this look when I use my powers – yes, that one. The one that makes you look like I'm drowning kittens in front if you."

This earns him the most half-hearted of glares. "I don't think you kill kittens. I just worry about you, that's all."

"I'm the last person in the universe you need to worry about," Iohannes says, wiggling the fingers of one hand as if to remind him of the power there. He does not call upon it to induce the harsh, cold light that is his power – the last time he had done so, even in jest, had been enough to trigger Rodney's memories of his time in the Higher Planes. Iohannes had been forced to wipe his memories for a third time that day.

"You've been very free with you're powers since the Sangraal destroyed most of your people, and one day those that are left are going to come for a reckoning.

"There's nothing to worry about."

"That's very reassuring," Rodney says dryly.

"I love you. I won't let them harm you. I won't let anyone harm you."

"Now that's more like the John Sheppard I married: sentimental and vaguely terrifying all rolled neatly into one rakishly-haired package."

"I love you," he repeats, adding a swift kiss to his declarations, "And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

"That? That right there? That's the vaguely terrifying thing I was talking about."

"C'mon Rodney. Let's get going. We have a planet to destroy."

They rain fire and ruin upon Asuras, taking not a single hit and decimating five continents in the process. If even one Asuran survived the holocaust, Iohannes would be surprised to the point of stupidity.

* * *

29 June, 2007 / XXXX Qui. a.f.c. I – Atlantis, Lantea, Pegasus

The Argosy returns home in quiet triumph, docking in the hangar bay just after midnight, scarcely twenty hours after they had left.

Iohannes is among the last to disembark, remaining aboard Vindicta for some time afterwards, not quite trusting himself to be around other people. His heart has never been so light after a battle. Never has a mission gone so well for him. Never has any victory been anything other than Pyrrhic. He wants to laugh from the sheer joy of success and hides himself away in his sea cabin until he's sure he can talk about the mission without grinning like a loon. Or a madman.

When he finally is, he finds that the members of his crew – of all four crews – have formed ranks on either side of the gangway. Row after row after row of soldiers from a hundred different worlds stand at perfect attention in crisp grey uniforms trimmed with black moquette. Ronon has made an army out of warriors and militiamen and it shows with every step he takes down the aisle that extends from the gangway. It seems more like an inspection than celebration, but perhaps that is what he needs: sobriety in the face of yet another genocide, albeit it one sorely wanted and gladly done.

But Iohannes cannot help himself when he sees Rodney, 'Helianus, and Doctor Morris standing at the crossroads of the aisles connecting their lintres' gangways. With a mad grin on his face, he quickens his pace until he is able to pull Rodney into his arms. "We did it," he says-

-but his voice is drowned out as the crowd, which had been so quiet the moment before, begins to cheer. And then they are swept up, into the arms and onto shoulders of the soldiers, almost before the kiss ends.

Iohannes can't help it any longer: the laughter pours from him, bright and honest and true, utterly lost beneath the noise of the crowd. He has never been happier than he is now.

But this is only the beginning. The universe is at is feet, as shining and golden as a summers day. All he has to do is reach out his hand and take it. One planet at a time.

Around them the crowd cries, "I-CAR-US! I-CAR-US!"

* * *

"How was the mission? Was it a success?" Teyla asks, rising. She'd been seated behind the desk in Elizabeta's old office with a pot of tea and a guest on the near side, but Iohannes ignores all this in favour of sweeping her up into a hug as well. He's feeling positively effusive today, as if he will burst from all the feeling inside of him if he does not find some way to express it. It is a strange feeling, one he's quite unused to. He's not quite sure he likes it yet, but if it is the price he must pay for success he will gladly pay it a thousand times over.

"You mean you couldn't hear the celebrations from here?" he laughs, spinning her in a circle that has Teyla swatting at his shoulder but laughing along with him. "It was amazing. It won't be winning any awards for Best Special Effects anytime soon, but we got the job done and the only casualty is a hastatus from Thetis with a broken arm that he got falling down an access ladder when Doctor Morris came out of hyperspace a little too heavy on the breaks. And space battles are always more exciting on TV than in real life anyway and, really, why do we even have access ladders? The only thing they're good for is breaking peoples' arms and, really, I can fix that in two-seconds flat, but why should I have to? I don't like doing it and they don't like having their arms broken, so let's cut out the middle man and just keep everyone uninjured."

"I see," she says with remarkable restraint, a smile tugging at both corners of her mouth after he sets her down. She had looked so tired when she'd arrived back in the city this morning, to watch over Atlantis while he and Rodney and 'Helianus were away, but Teyla looks almost happy herself now. "And were you planning on returning to the celebrations," she asks, glancing behind him at the small coterie milling about the Control Room, "or do you have time to introduce yourself to your guest?"

He flashes Teyla and her guest his best company smile. "For you, my lady? Anything." His smile gets brighter as he watches her fight the urge to roll her eyes – something he fears they've both learned from Rodney. Speaking of which, "Hey, Rodney!" he calls through the open door, "Want to meet the latest diplomat Terra's sent to try to paper over their mistakes?" He doesn't wait for his answer before slinking across the room and sinking into the couch along the far wall.

It is a good couch. A fine couch. He should have it moved into one of his offices rather than left to rot here, in a room no one but Teyla – on the rare occasions she's in the city – uses anymore.

"I am no diplomat, Colonel Sheppard. I am Colonel Abraham Ellis, captain of the Apollo."

"So that's what they've decided to call the new ship? You'd think that with all the gods and goddesses that have turned out to be Asgard or goa'uld, they'd stop naming one after the other and risk having a ship named after an alien despot."

To Colonel Ellis' credit, he doesn't start when Rodney slips into the room behind him or twitch when he joins Iohannes on the couch, sitting rather closer than he's found most Terran officers are entirely comfortable with. He merely blinks and continues undaunted-

"I hate to break up your celebration. It sounds like you gave the Replicators exactly what they had coming to them. But it is imperative that I speak with you – and Colonel Telford and Majors Lorne and Teldy – immediately."

"Sure," Iohannes shrugs. "Teyla, d'you mind?"

"Not at all," she says, and ducks out of the room. She won't have to go far to find Evan – he and Radek were part of the group that followed him up from the mess hall, to give the enlisted personnel space to celebrate away from their officers – but he doesn't want to be the person who has to wake up Major Teldy on her night off. He may be a god, but Teldy is scary when she wants to be.

He leans back against the couch, settling his arms along the back of it, taking up as much space as he possibly can. Rodney snorts at him, seeing his ruse for what it really is: a chance to make this Colonel Ellis as uncomfortable as he can and touch Rodney in public both.

"So, you going to tell us what this is all about, or…?"

"I believe I should wait for the others."

"Alright, but you get to be the one to explain to Major Teldy why you pulled her out of bed at midnight for something less than the end of the world. Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was Matertera Catalina come back to torment me for not having paid better attention to what she tried to teach me as a child."

But Matertera Catalina Ascended and, like so many others, had been destroyed when SG-1 deployed the Sangraal too soon. All that is left of his family among the others are a few exceptionally distant cousins; his paternal grandmother's sister, Athanasia Aquilidea; and a rather less distant cousin in the form of Joseua Lal Tribunus, who must certainly be at lose ends since his mother returned to the home galaxy to battle the Abomination Adria until the end of days.

But that doesn't matter anymore. He and Rodney are married now. 'Helianus is their adopted son and, for all the fuss both of them make over their relationship not meaning anything, Radek is as good as his son-in-law. Rory is the daughter he never knew he wanted and 'Lantis remains, as always, his constant companion in all things. They are his family, not those self-righteous imbeciles who would never be able to see there is no use in power, no point in knowledge unless those with either use them to help those without. They may have Ascended him, but he will never be like them.

He is Iohannes Ianideus Icarus Imperator, The Star That Fell From Heaven, The Lord of the Land Beyond Death, The Father of All Men and Maker of All Worlds. He will save this galaxy and all of its people, regardless of whatever this Colonel Ellis wants from him.

Evan and Radek slip into the room while he's lost in his thoughts. "Really, Icarus," the former says as the latter takes up a perch on the arm of the couch, on Rodney's other side, "you'd think you didn't like Anne the way you go on about her."

"I can like her and be justifiably terrified of her at the same time."

'Helianus snorts and inclines his head slightly in Ellis' direction. "Colonel."

"Major," he answers, doing much the same.

It occurs to Iohannes that this may be the first time anyone from Terra has addressed Evan by rank since they dropped him from the rolls. For some reason, this strikes a sour note with him, and has him asking:

"So where's your ship, by the way? She wasn't in the hangar when we docked and I don't recall seeing her in orbit."

"I left orders that the Apollo was to remain out of sight behind this planet's moon until I had received word that your mission was a success."

This strikes another false cord with Iohannes, though he cannot honestly say why. The 304s are nothing compared any of his lintres and the shadow of the moon would have been as good a place as any for them to hide in safety if trouble had followed them back. But he can't help but feel that part of the story is missing.

"Yes, well, that's partially your own fault, y'know. You knew what we intended and still arrived, what? Three days ahead of schedule. Impressive, but stupid."

Rodney rolls his eyes. Vigorously, "I'm sure they just wanted to show off, being a new ship and all. Give Caldwell a run for his money, or something."

"I don't think so," Iohannes says lightly, examining Ellis.

He stands straight-backed, in the manner of men who are used to standing at attention but who rarely demand attention of themselves. A bit proud, maybe, but rightly so. Stubborn, yes, but not to the point of being uncompromising. He believes what he believes because the universe has given him no reason to think differently; he will kill for his beliefs but will not die for them. An upstanding officer, if standoffish.

In short, colonel Ellis appears to be everything a man of his rank should be – everything that Iohannes has ever been faulted for not being. And yet, at Iohannes' question-

"Why are you really here, Colonel?"

-he glances towards Evan, a man who had been two ranks bow him before the Air Force had dropped him from the rolls for his part in the Hegira, and waits for his slight nod before answering.

And it is then Iohannes knows that something is well and truly wrong, before Ellis even speaks, before he sees the subtle twitch of fingers towards holsters that follows closely on its tail.

"As you well know," Apollo's captain says, "SG-1 brought the Ancient artefact known as The Ark of Truth back with them after dismantling the Ori religion. What you do no know is that, before their return, they were also able to find and retrieve the Sangraal built by Doctor Jackson several months earlier. I have both of those items now in my procession aboard the Apollo and have been authorized to use either as I see fit if you will not relinquish your hold over this galaxy. You may either abdicate your throne now in favour of your legally recognized heir, Major Lorne, until such a time as you can be brought to justice for your crimes, or I can exterminate you and all that remains of your race where you sit."


End file.
